The Crown

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/35090365.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandoms: 約束のネバーランド | Yakusoku no Neverland | The Promised Neverland
(Manga), 約束のネバーランド | Yakusoku no Neverland | The Promised
Neverland (Anime)
Relationships: Norman/Ray (The Promised Neverland), Emma/Gilda (The Promised Neverland)
Characters: Ray (The Promised Neverland), Norman (The Promised Neverland), Emma (The
Promised Neverland), Isabella (The Promised Neverland)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Royalty, okay listen here, Childhood Friends, Enemies to
Lovers, But they'll be fine, eventually :), Canon Divergence, some new characters
but not too many, Growing Up, too much plot, Poisoning, Duelling, Ray is in
love and traumatized, parental relationships are fucked up, A bit of Supernatural,
AH YES, Slow Burn, very slow, also deadly, did i mention unhealthy?,
Assassination Attempt(s), OVERALL imagine Neverland but in royalcore and
gayer, i had a dream of a saint trio being princes and a princess and i swear i
understood life, Ray is the main character, Ray is a sweetie 'cause i said so,
Norman's well... not so much, emma is a girlboss, i'm also bitching the bible here
so be warned, a little bit of gender bender here and there 'cause I love women,
Survivor Guilt, i know the summary is cheesy but we die like men, can be read as
an original work at this point tbh, this fic is illustrated, they clearly want to bang
but angst doesn't let them (c)
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2021-11-13 Completed: 2023-10-31 Words: 136,616 Chapters: 13/13
 The Crown
by Kasakobu

Summary

The days of the cursed Crown Prince Ray are bleak before the hated Northern Prince Norman visits
his country for the first time, and their destinies change forever. The best friend, the kindest, the
smartest, yet something ominous is lurking in his gaze...

What happens if Ray turns his back to this cold Prince? What if he's the only one brave enough to
look into the scary blue eyes?
What if these Princes fall in love?
 Childhood. The Little Prince
Chapter Notes

First of all! I strongly recommend checking out my playlist specifically tailored for this story:
Spotify or VK.
My ultimate suggestion for almost all chapters is either Variations on Rococo Theme, Op. 33 or
Salem's Secret by Peter Gundry. You may peruse and choose whatever suits you, though!
There is also a piano composition by Helz who created it specifically for my work. (You'll see
more of her further down the road.)
Further thanks to my friend, Anastasia Aveerdna, for always suffering through my infodumps,
reading every little snippet of lore and plot, and overall being such a good reader she might as
well be a coauthor at this point!

A fair warning: in this chapter (and the next to follow) Norman and Ray are eleven years old, but
they will grow up. For now, I just want some sweet childhood crushes. Blind, reckless, and
honestly stupid. You know the drill.

This chapter is also a massive build-up to a huge story that is about to unfold for the next equally
massive chapters. So, stay tuned!

In the blade's reflection, the young Prince sees his angel's eyes, and he will never fall into the blue
abyss of them again.

"Do you remember all those years I crumbled before you? As I watched you strangle me when my
palms were shreds of skin, as I begged you to claim me to feel life again, as I adored you like you
were my lost God, as I killed you whenever you beseeched me, as I swallowed your words of love and
in return I let you maim and ruin me? I will ask you again, as I did many times in the past: do you
regret what you've done to me?"

The demon standing before him shows no sympathy, no remorse.

No love.

"What a twisted story," says a boy with distinct dark hair as he closes a thick book on his lap. "I'm
glad everything ended well. I've read so many books with cruel endings, it's certainly a nice change of
pace."

His friend with glossy eyes and a regal figure skims through the endless bookshelves with his eyes
and hums deeply.

"How many have you read?"

"Marvelous question, my friend!" The excited boy beams and unconsciously puffs his chest, proud.
"Almost everything in the library! I'm still not done, but it's my lifetime goal."

The quiet settles between them. It is a tad unnerving and empty kind, and the boastful boy wishes his
other best friend was with them to dispel the awkwardness.

"Demons... What a twisted story, indeed."

The voice of a white-haired one is otherworldly. He is floating in his thoughts as if solving a great
mathematical question in his mind.

A small dark fox knows he shouldn't bother a white wolf when he thinks this deeply. Instead, he
decides to simply watch him: pale skin, unsettling blue eyes, white eyelashes, his whole frame sings
of dignity and quiet intelligence. So pretty. Maybe even prettier than their common friend (red like a
phoenix), even if it seems nigh impossible.

"Forgive me. It seems the story has engrossed me more than I thought." A voice snaps him out of his
trance. "You needn't look at me with such worry. I am quite alright."

"Oh, it's not that. I simply enjoy looking at you. You're quite pretty." A fox averts his eyes
momentarily but then adds a tint of sarcasm and mockery to his voice. "Your Highness."

"You're not so bad yourself." A wolf replies, mirroring the gesture but adding something foreignly
beautiful and warm in his voice. "Your Highness."

His Highness giggles, anxiously flipping through the pages of a story about three kids who saved
everyone from the claws and teeth of ferocious demons. It reminds him of their trio.

They weren't always this friendly.

When the heir apparent of the Northern Province first appeared in the castle of the Sachevia
Kingdom, the little Prince was wary of him. The small enigma, white like an eyesore, was strolling
the corridors completely alone, refused any servants, and was clearly sent here to spy. Or at least that
is what the little Prince thought for he had already planned a mission in his mind to spy on this boy in
return.

Except, this princeling wasn't doing anything suspicious. He had dinners with the royal family (the
grand vixen always made two Princes sit nearby), slept in his appointed room, visited the library, and
read for most of the day. It was boring to snoop when he was like that, and gradually the fox cub
gained a habit of reading something alongside him, occasionally peeping to see whether there were
any plans to destroy Sachevia hidden in the pages. Surprisingly, the books this stranger picked were
the Prince's absolute favourites. Practically no one has shared his passion for these stories in the entire
Kingdom, and, just like that, not even a week had passed before one lonely boy was ranting about his
dreams to another, all suspicions forgotten.

"Can we call each other by name? I'm sorry." The dark one almost shriveled in embarrassment but
gathered himself just as quickly. "I don't have many friends in the castle, and Emma doesn't frequent
as much as I would have liked."

"Alright." The white Prince replied, his smile pointy, trying to cover a creeping blush, and a little bit
smug. "You can call me Norman, your High-"
"It's Ray. Truly, no need for formalities."

They shook their hands, and Ray made a promise to himself to never let this disturbingly cold hand
go.

The news of two Princes getting along swimmingly brought a lot of joy to the people of Sachevia.
The Northern Province is dangerous and unpredictable; if the royal members manage to establish a
great relationship from their infant years, peaceful decades without political turmoil are only to be
expected.

Despite the Kingdom buzzing with good news and dizzy hopes for the future, Ray is transfixed by his
new best friend, not caring for anything else at all. Free of judgement, a deep thinker, carefully
considerate, a great listener with a massive heart, Norman has barged into Ray's life like a hero from
Ray's favourite stories and tied their little fingers with a thin, sturdy, red thread of fate.

Ray decides it is only proper of him as a representative of Sachevia to show such an important guest
every place and delight of his Kingdom. It is nothing more than an excuse to spend time together;
everyone understands that, even maids giggle and bow to their inseparable pair. Everyone except for
Ray himself, oblivious and utterly enamoured.

Every new day they visit a new area of the palace, and every servant and clerk is buzzing with
excitement in bursts of anticipation. Who wouldn't want to meet this famous Northern heir who
captured their Prince's heart so completely?

A small girl shrieks when the inseparable pair visits her massive kitchen. Her tiny tails swing as Ray
takes her in his arms and hugs, a shriek turning into a fit of giggles.

"Your Highness! You shouldn't be here, it's our secret!" She beats Ray sluggishly in the chest with
small hands in an attempt to break free. "I will ruin your fine attire with flour!"

Ray doesn't notice Norman walking behind his back, checking everything rather superficially. He is
too distracted by blocking every single hit of the girl's fists. Something changes very drastically when
out of the corner of their eyes they finally notice Norman, and the girl freezes. Her weight solidifies
as if her whole body has turned into a solid block of ice. It is getting harder to hold her when she
shatters and slips out like a puddle of goo.

The floor meets not a girl but a chewed piece of meat that got spit out.

"Conny! What's wrong, honey? What got you so scared?" Ray bends and falls hard on his knees, hugs
her, protecting her, covering her with his whole body. She sees nothing behind the veil of her silent
shock and Ray's jacket. "It's alright, sweetie. I'm with you. Nothing will hurt you. I'm here."

He strokes her hair, and Norman leaves the kitchen, notifying no one. That is when Conny frees
herself of the monstrous chains of her horror, and she starts screaming. The blast of her scream
destroys the kitchen door, turning to ash all the corridors, scorching far-away rooms and the garden,
echoing in the world. Ray receives the full force of it, front row.

The sound still rings like a thousand church bells above him, over and over again, even when Conny
is led away by the cooks. Ray is a gnarled, torn apart, blind, and deaf figure on the floor, clenching his
head with both hands, trying to squeeze the torture out of his brain. Someone gently holds him,
straightening, kissing his temples with fingertips, barely touching, picking him like a puzzle, and
solving, fixing, healing, perfecting.
Everything is hollow apart from these small touches when Ray understands that this is Norman.

A soothing balm of a voice strokes his torn-apart ear,

"You should have told me there would be a kid."

"What, are you afraid of kids?" Ray manages to say before he hisses through the sentence, a new
wave of migraine blinding him, shutting him up.

Norman cradles Ray's head and massages it expertly, knees on the dirty floor. He strokes the back of
his head up and down, feather-lightly, rubs it until it is almost burning, presses his thumbs to certain
points, and kneads, controlled pain and relief mixing on the tips of his fingers.

Norman answers the question only when Ray opens his eyes again, meeting Norman's own in poorly
concealed adoration.

"It's the opposite, actually. I ignite a very deeply hidden fear in kids, a primitive kind. It's always been
like that." He pauses and adds rather pointlessly. "Since I started comprehending myself as Me as a
child, you know?"

Ray wonders why kids would ever be this horrified by this sweet, gentle, quiet Norman. Maybe it is
his eyes. They are of such a deep, vivid, bottomless, encompassing, and empty shade of blue even
Ray sometimes gets chills when Norman looks at him. He has never seen this colour in his whole life;
then again, he hasn't met anyone from the North for that matter. Maybe it is hereditary.

"I'm sorry. For causing this scene." Ray mumbles into Norman's shoulder. "I wanted to show you that
I'm fond of cooking. I don't think it's very... princely of me, but I wanted to share a part of me with
you, I'm so sorry, it's such a disaster-"

"I reckon the hobby suits you even though it is a rather unbefitting one for your station." Norman
interrupts him abruptly. "You're cute. Don't apologize."

The word 'cute' rings in Ray's ears, and the sound doesn't torture him for once. It uplifts him, and Ray
thinks he has finally learned how to fly.

"Then would you accept my thanks instead?" Ray finds the strength in his arms for a reciprocated
hug. "Norman."

Even if the day didn't go as planned, Ray still firmly believes every new day alongside Norman is
worth living for.

He is absolutely right but also doesn't notice a subtle change in the atmosphere in the castle. He is as
engrossed with Norman as ever and doesn't care for the guards near each room not greeting them
anymore, neither cheerfully nor dully. He is indifferent to a distinct lack of maids on their way in the
corridors, of mindless chatter in the kitchen. The gossip spreads quickly in the castle, leaving
everyone with a strange sense of foreboding and thickly veiled hostility towards the Northern heir.

Even if Ray doesn't notice, Norman certainly does, rejecting all of Ray's advances to stroll the castle.
He buries himself in the books, and days flow by without either of them seeing even a speck of the
sky. Norman naps on Ray's shoulder and lap, casually affectionate and trusting, a book on his chest,
afraid of the unreasonable hatred. Ray brings him food from the kitchen and doesn't understand how
to help him, how to make everyone see the Northern Prince with his smitten eyes.
It dawns upon him. They should run away. Take the finest, hardiest horses and escape. It doesn't
matter where: to Norman's Province, to the forests, under Emma's wings, they'll figure something out.

"But why? Where?" Norman's voice is hoarse from an interrupted nap, confused and desperate as they
run from the castle in the dead of the night. "You know me but a month, Ray. Don't give up on your
life just because I'm a little bit overwhelmed!"

"I don't care, Norman!" Ray wants to scream for Norman to understand but instead whispers angrily,
out of breath. "I see you're suffering, and I promise I'll help! Trust me!"

Sachevia's only Prince stops abruptly, and Norman crashes against his back, almost tumbling them
both to the ground.

Why do you care for meare the words left unsaid when Norman raises his head and meets with the
finest black horse he has ever seen. It towers above them, huffing in rage at the sight of the Northern
Prince, surely eager to trample him lifeless, but rough, experienced, gloved hands stop the beast from
lashing out.

Ray doesn't notice a horse but a horsewoman on a saddle. A heavy, dark gaze, full of excruciating
disappointment and fatigue Ray could never comprehend settles on him from above, pressing on his
back like a rock chained to his neck to bow and obey.

And so he does.

"Your Majesty."

Even when she cannot look him in the eye, he still feels her stare like a whip ripping his strained back
to shreds, leaving ugly scars that will never ever heal.

"Ray." Her Majesty says, acknowledging her son´s presence, and even her voice sounds like shackles.
"Your Highness."

Ray couldn't possibly see Norman not even trying to bow his head before her, yet somehow he knows.

"What could you possibly be doing this late near my stables." Her voice is smooth, bored,
mechanically, perfectly mannered, insincere. Not even a question. "Do be careful. I hear there is some
beast roaming the castle as we speak. Not that we need another cursed being in this country."

Ray flinches as if actually struck with a whip, and she leaves, satisfied, leaving sallow dust under the
hooves of her horse.

The gates to freedom have closed.

Check.

Ray doesn't talk to Norman on the way to the castle, and the Northern Prince is considerate enough
not to ask any questions. He expects to lie down in the library, calming down Ray as they fall asleep.
Yet his expectations do not grow into reality as the little Prince leads him... In the direction of the
royal bedroom.
The guards near Ray's chambers aren't supposed to ask any questions; vivid disapproval and even
betrayal flash in their eyes before they bow before their Prince silently, judgementally. Ray only
covers Norman's frame with his whole body, facing sheer inexplicable hatred himself. They enter, Ray
holding Norman's hand, dragging him in, shutting the doors as if afraid of this sick atmosphere
leaking through the smallest gap.

Norman doesn't understand.

"Ray? What's going on?"

There is no reply. Instead, Ray simply looks him in the eye, disoriented, worried, trusting, and lets
Norman's hand go, flying towards the farthest wall, the tallest bookshelf in the chambers, a decision
made in his head. He skims through the familiar books one after one, after one, after one, the action
repeating itself like a ritual. Norman doesn't see any logic behind it and, for a lack of anything better
to do, absent-mindedly examines the room, his look distant, step inaudible.

It is a surprisingly cliché room, just like the one Norman would expect from a clever heir of the
Sachevia throne. Massive bookshelves, covering every wall in lieu of the works of art; massive
windows with a view of the palace's garden, a huge tree overshadowing anything else, reaching the
windows; a massive soft bed with a canopy, a reading corner with two chairs and a glass with
burgundy dahlia flowers on a simple table. Warm, soft, light brown colours. So predictable, so
unoriginal.

And yet so oddly comforting.

When Ray puts yet another book back on the shelves (is this the twentieth?), something clicks.
Lightly scratches the floor and opens up. The tallest bookshelf reveals a tunnel right in Ray's
chambers.

"I should probably have expected that, but I haven't, and now wow. Wow, I'm so confused, Ray, does
this one lead to your private library?"

Norman attempts weakly at a joke, and Ray doesn't reciprocate. He stares at the passage, his back
towards Norman, contemplating, doubting. Deciding.

"Do you want it to be a surprise?" Ray smiles stiffly, meeting Norman's eyes again.

"Only the good kind. And-"

"No kids, I swear," Ray stares at him with strange intent and adds, "Your hair colour is very
beautiful."

"Huh...? Where did that come from?"

The Prince averts all eye contact and approaches the bed, palms searching under the pillows, and the
pliable fabric is murmuring under his touch. Norman suddenly wants to lie down and drown in the
softness of these covers and unintentional touches.

"Here." Ray finally pulls out a piece of clothes of such a deep black colour it would be easy to be one
with the night shadows if someone wore it. "I'm afraid you'd stand out. You're very... memorable."

Norman cannot actually see Ray's cheeks flush lightly in the darkness, but he can read him well
enough to hear a tint of shyness in his voice, the last word trailing off along with it.
Norman meets him near the gasping chasm of empty space, and their fingers brush when he receives a
cape with a hood, smelling very strongly of worn-out books, mad honey, and Ray's sweat. He cannot
say whether he likes the smell, but he sure adores the feel of the cape on his skin: smooth, velvety, a
little baggy, letting him move his joints.

"Your clothes will never save you from the cold, but they feel very nice." The Northern Prince's
comment is left unheard because Ray stares at him again. "How do I look?"

"Very pretty... Like an accomplished assassin from the novels or a blue swallowtail or a spy or a..."

"Ray." Norman interrupts him, suddenly displeased. "I appreciate the incessant compliments, but I
should ask you to stop calling me 'pretty’. It's an effeminate word. I'm a Prince, not a Princess."

"Oh, I-I'm so sorry." Ray is taken aback, almost bowing in shame for his lack of manners. "Beautiful?
Lovely? Gorgeous? I'm so sorry I just think the clothes look really nice on you I'm mumbling I beg
your forgiveness I'd just never thought boys could be..."

"Do not apologize." The displeasure that scared Ray so much flickers and vanishes from Norman's
voice, instead replaced with the usual care. "Where would your cape be?"

"Oh, I have only one. That's okay. I'll be alright. Let's go. We don't have much time."

Norman laughs to himself at how easy this boy is to read, almost embarrassingly, adorably so.
Changing the subject so abruptly? He could certainly learn more subtlety if he wants to be
convincing. Still, their fingers intertwine naturally, without any reflections, shame, or condescension.

The bookshelf closes behind their backs, the black swallowing the brown, the sense, leaving only the
feeling of their intertwined fingers. Merciful. Cruel.

Ray leads him, his step full of mechanical confidence, heels clicking on the stone. Norman gets his
vision back fast, and something doesn't sit right with him.

The shape of a corridor is an oiled image incarnate of the old tales. With high ceilings, masterfully
crafted candelabras on the walls, smooth stone under their feet, the tunnel seems too proper to be
abandoned or a bunker of sorts.

The Northern Prince inhales deeply, a crawling suspicion on his mind. The sound echoes, and the
dusty suffocating smell doesn't reach his nose.

Is the place supposed to be a secret?

"Do you..." Norman wants to ask in his normal voice, but the echo resonates so strongly, so
unexpectedly Ray almost yanks himself towards the ceiling. Norman squeezes his palm, grounding,
and whispers instead. "Do your maids come here to clean?"

"My wha... Norman! Are you mocking me?! I thought... Holy Mother!" Ray hisses, endlessly
embarrassed, his echo booms in contrast. "No. Only the royal family knows of the tunnels. Why?"

Or that is what he thinks, Norman muses, still disturbed by such a clean passage.

Ray doesn't get to know Norman's thoughts for they reach the dead end, and the Prince stops a few
centimeters before the wall, still probably not seeing much. Ray pushes it open with his shoulder and
practiced ease.
They enter another room, and Norman expects to see a lot of things, yet an enormous three-meter
statue of an Angel, towering above intricate coffins isn't something he could have foreseen.
Everything about her is uneasily detailed, intrusive: the velvet of her regal dress is almost tangible,
her wings stretch solid four meters wide, every feather almost shaking in the faint wind. Her beauty is
otherwordly, her gaze of condemn and command. Whatever or whoever she is supposed to represent,
Norman sees no one but the Angel of Death.

"Meet my grandmother Lilith." Ray says, looking at the statue with so much unadulterated love it
almost seems like Angel's gaze changes to stare adoringly at him in return. Of course, that is nothing
but the work of the stained glass behind her overwhelming figure.

"Ah. That's who Her Majesty got her eyes from." Norman doesn't let the sudden horror leak into his
voice, forces himself to look away.

The Angel's residence is a burial vault where old kings and queens lie, their features carved to be
remembered and honoured forever in the forms of effigies. Norman didn't notice them at first, an
imposing line of dead royalty, their arms wide, inviting their descendant to lie down with them, buried
under the cold stone. The image of this little Prince so full of life, of stories, and colours of his
compassionate soul turns into yet another statue in Norman's impressionable mind. An effigy in a
pretentious pose, void of his unconditional warmth. Cold stone. Useless for it no longer will be him.

It is strangely... freezing in here.

It has been a while since the Northern heir felt this kind of raw fear. Numb, breathless as if he is the
one buried under the uncaring stone.

"Norman..."

A warm palm settles on his shoulder, and it is a grand fireplace in his home castle after a day in the
blizzard. He wants to throw his whole body into this fire to feel alive again, no matter how reckless
and irrational the action may seem. His hands would burn, the numbness, and the echo of the stone
walls would disappear, and

He knows better than this.

Ray's hand is covered by Norman's own, a light, reassuring smile greeting the little Prince again.

"I was wondering why Her Majesty Lilith looks so... exaggerated." Norman speaks casually as if
continuing a cultured conversation. It is not like he was just caught being dead horrified by this place.
"Everyone else is of normal human height."

Norman knows someone else of the same height...

"...Her Royal Highness grandmother really was three meters tall. She never became a Queen in her
lifetime." Ray answers carefully, trying to decipher how Lilith is in any way connected to Norman
shaking like a leaf in a snowstorm. It is a wasted effort—he closes off, his moment of weakness is a
mirage, a no-bother.

"And the wings?"

"They are mostly symbolic."

Who was she to get such an outstanding representation? The question is left unasked; Norman's words
and body are swallowed by a fire in the form of Ray. Gentle, safe, warm. The one Norman was so
wary of. An embrace.

Alive.

Ray would never scald him.

His hug is a fur coat to protect against the numb death. When he lets go to hold Norman's hand
instead, his warmth lingers, yet this place is still sucking it all momentarily. The Northern Prince has
never felt this sort of cold in his whole life, and the closer they step into Lilith's shadow, the worse it
gets. Ray's hot hand in his own helps like a mirage of a distant fire in the darkest, coldest, cruelest of
nights; it gives him hope to mindlessly move forward.

As if reading his mind, Ray sidesteps her statue, out of her gaze, behind her back, her wings. Norman
blinks rapidly, eyes dry and itchy, relief overshadowing the fear that she will move and kill him when
he cannot see her. Nevertheless, his feelings do not pull him out of reality, and he doesn't miss an
abrupt stop before yet another wall and knows immediately what is about to happen next. Ray presses
certain stones on the wall, calculated, knowing, doubtless. The figure looks like a long script of a lost
language, and Norman memorizes the order. It reminds him of something important...

The stone walls open before them in absolute uncharacteristic silence to reveal a strange passage. A
weak gust of wind brushes the boys' hair from the depth of this cave: It seems endless, poorly
maintained, unguarded, dangerous. Not at all like that corridor connecting the chambers to the tomb.

Norman wonders if Her Majesty Isabella is aware of this passage, too...

Trust me.

Or maybe he underestimated his little Prince after all.

The darkness descends again as the stone walls close behind them immediately as if only waiting for
them to walk inside. Ray's step is less confident in the blinding lack of colours and sounds, but his
grip on Norman's hand is just as secure and strong. He is trailing the walls' surface with his fingers,
using the gesture like a walking stick; it is apparent that he is not a frequent visitor here. The dust
gathers on his fingertips quickly, and he brushes them on his prim and proper clothes in silent disgust
only to stroke the walls again. He moves his other palm against Norman's own in a suppressed wish to
brush the clothes from the dirt, too, yet still prefers to keep holding the Prince's hand begrudgingly.
Despite the strange situation, Norman chuckles quietly, a small note of adoration slipping into his
laughter.

"What?" Ray asks, not quite managing to hide the distaste from his voice.

"That's really cute." Norman teases, and Ray's ears turn crimson red. This 'cute' again...

"How can you see that?!"

Even if Norman wanted to reply, Ray bumps into a rickety ladder going upward which renders any
answers ill-timed.

"I'll go first," Ray says bravely, letting go of Norman's hand completely. A sudden, blank fear that
he'll be left here forgotten overtakes Norman, but he squashes it and bites his lip hard, almost drawing
blood, a punishment, a whiplash. He climbs after Ray obediently.
The road to the surface is short, yet the entrance to it is surprisingly unimpressive. A hidden corridor
behind a bookshelf, a royal burial vault, a passage behind the banshee's wings that opens only with the
message in a forgotten language, and now... a simple hatch with no locks? The wood screeches
unpleasantly when Ray pushes the door easily with one hand and opens the view to the galaxy of the
stars. The little Prince freezes for a second, startled by their sheer freedom he will never be able to
have. Not any longer. He tries to spit the feeling out, but it is already in his throat, veins, his heart. He
pushes himself out to cut off the source of this strange unease and helps Norman stand on his feet.
Some colour returns to the Northern Prince's face when their fingers interlace again.

Pure relief overwhelms Norman, and he doesn't immediately notice that they are in a roofless shack
tainted with dark scars of fire. The ashes that were not washed away by the rains still paint the walls
and the corners a vivid black shade of a horrible, slow death. A fallen balk that once blocked the door,
probably dooming or crushing someone, is now put to the side, no doubt by Ray's past self.

"You mean to tell me the castle is interconnected with this... hut? How does that make sense?"
Norman almost bristles; the oppressive atmosphere weighs heavily on him.

"Not even orphans of the streets come inside. There's nothing to find here, and you can really feel...
something ominous in the air." Ray gulps and strides towards the exit. "Even if somebody found the
passage, they still would have needed the password. Her Highness Lilith made sure I'd be the only one
to know it."

Norman doesn't mention that he has memorized it, too.

Ray leads him out of the house to the dirtiest, the darkest, the most miserable city block Norman has
ever seen. It is a prison, a home, a safe haven for bandits, orphans, drunkards, streetwalkers, and Ray
ducks expertly under its shadows, in the narrow alleys like a person born and raised by this filth.
Norman's face contorts in silent, invisible disgust. For the royal family to allow this? His Father
would never...

The apparent lack of lampposts gets under his skin. He expects to see a man with a knife behind each
corner, a woman with poisonous heels, a ghost, a corpse... Yet Ray hurries, a destination in mind,
never mindful of the darkness that presses on them. Milliards of eyes, watching, creeping in the
shadows, observing, spiteful. They follow the Princes' every step, closing in, with something
purposeful and malicious in mind. It is probably just paranoia. A sick illusion that went wild by
Norman's suppressed fears.

From the clutches of these illusions, a cobblestone goes flying towards Ray's head. It doesn't miss.

A dull thud, a yelp, a hand that releases Norman's own to clutch the hurt spot on the head. Ray hisses,
shocked, his figure wobbles, and Norman catches him before he falls if only to bring Ray's warmth
back unconsciously.

Norman's mouth is agape, and Ray struggles to stand even supported by Norman's hands when two
shabby kids emerge from the shadows. The darkness' stares still press on them yet the Northern Prince
feels it: they are the leaders of the eyes.

They look like twins with identical rags instead of proper clothes, the same posture, sickly thin
figures, and raw hostility in their eyes.

"Ray." They call His Highness by his name in unison. "We warned you to never step foot into our
territory again."
Ray gasps either in pain or recognition and makes an effort to dart toward them, still held, suppressed
securely by Norman's hands.

"Thoma! Lannion! I'm so glad to see you! How is-"

The darkness interrupts, sputters out at him when the boys' eyes slit in thinly-veiled disdain. The
voices rise out of order, in every and all direction, choking Ray, the sheer animosity slowly breaking
his bones one by one.

"Glad?"

"Another word, and we will..."

"Crash you."

"Burn you."

"That's what you deserve, you Princely piece of trash!"

"Stay locked up in your fancy castle!"

"Why can't you just rot there."

"You want freedom? Have a taste!"

"I bet he enjoys looking at our sufferings."

"You killed them! You are killing us!"

"Just die already!"

Another rock flies towards Ray's head but hits Norman's hand instead. And another. And another. The
Northern Prince covers his friend's figure with his whole body, and it is still not enough: another one
hits Ray between shoulder blades, a pained gasp ghosting Norman's shoulder.

"How. Dare. You." Norman punctuates every word, and his voice booms above all else, distorts,
manifests into the howls of everyone wronged and abused. Ray hurries to grab his hand but misses,
vision blurry.

"Norman, no!" The Prince's voice cracks, pathetically weak and hurt, betrayed, meowling, hurt. "It's
okay I'm alright don't touch them-"

Too late: a guttural, unnatural snarl comes from Norman's side. The sound feels worse than a physical
hit to the head as it grates Ray's skull, long, gnashing, torture. The cape falls from Norman's head as if
by chance, revealing his white hair and icy eyes. It works wonders: the pair of hooligans freezes;
naked, dismembered horror flashes in their expressions when they whimper and scream, and run like
bleeding, beaten dogs with their tails torn off. The eyes' stare and a torrent of rocks vanish into the
void along with the screams.

"...Norman."

"I didn't touch them."

Ray doesn't ask, and Norman doesn't need to say the rest. The Sachevia's Prince expects to see the
open gates of hell in his friend's gaze but finds only agony, guilt, a disturbing kind of worry,
oppressive and heavy, and he understands.

Freezing fingers examine Ray's scalp and the back of his head in careful, almost stroking motions.
The little Prince relaxes under Norman's touches and closes his eyes when the cold of another's
fingers covers the bump on his head. He wants to ask Norman to move his fingers to Ray's shoulder
blades... and blushes profusely, understanding how improper that would be.

It is so easy to trust him. It is so strange to think they could run away from the pain, from the burden
of the malevolent crown hovering above Ray's head. It is so natural to feel cared for by Norman, to
want to protect in return.

Ray searches for at least a shadow of reciprocation in his friend's eyes. The feeling of warm hands
near the cold neck startles, visibly shakes the Northern Prince, and the darkness of the streets doesn't
cover his pupils getting wider, hiding the scary blue from view. Vulnerable, expectant, fiercely
protective. Ray finds even more than he’d have hoped for, and in the blink of a moment, he wants to
follow the script of romantic novels his Mother read when she used to love him.

He covers Norman's white hair with a cape, a shadow falling on their faces, a shield between them. A
wall. They are muchcloser than Ray remembers. That much harder to move away from the cold
breaths pleasantly tickling his lips.

"Didn't I tell you? You stand out."

"And I had an impression you liked my hair. My apologies for assuming."

"I'm not the one with my hands all over you, Your Highness."

Their friendly banter is as casual, natural, and immediate as their intertwined fingers. Ray leads
Norman further to their destination, silently relieved his moment of queer weakness didn't ruin their
friendship. At least, not momentarily.

They don't meet a soul on their way to the huge pub. The drunk laughter filled with short-term
happiness leaks through the closed windows, the building seems to shake along with it, and Ray lights
up, unconsciously mirroring the joy of the common people. Norman stares at him, engrossed in his
smile; he doesn't ask why they are going to this shady tavern in the worst part of the town, he doesn't
notice a dirty man throwing up not far from the entrance. He gulps, memorizes the work of art that is
his little Prince's delight, and locks it in his heart. He wishes he could steal Ray in his entirety
instead.

The familiar place and faces meet Ray when he opens the doors. Norman's nose wrinkles in disgust
when the odor of strong male sweat, cheap alcohol, and thick perfume hits his nostrils; the smell
overwhelms him, yells of danger, blinds, and Ray doesn't blink even once before Norman covers him
with his body and a dark like a night cape. Next, he is punched in the gut by the avalanche of mocking
laughter, and it threatens to bury him under the freezing shame. He wants to protect, he doesn't care
what happens next, he won't allow to ridicule his little Prince, he is going to-

A boyish burst of laughter, rather a knife than a natural cataclysm, hits Norman in the back, sharp,
free, happy, beautiful. He turns around, betrayed, meets his loving, cheerful, giddy from chuckling
Prince, and stays, taking the endless blows for him.
"What's that?! Your Highness, since when d'ya have such a loyal dog?"

Ray embraces Norman with one hand, still shaking a little bit, and whispers casually,

"You can trust these people. No one really cares who you are here."

Ray leads Norman to the bar counter, tightly pressing against him, his embracing hand is a careful
leash. Along the way, he throws casual greetings to tired after-work builders, poorly dressed waiters,
like they are his equals, even his friends.

A rotting feeling twists Norman's stomach when they finally sit at the bar counter, and a scrawny lady
bartender, more an owl than a person, rushes to hug Ray, no permission asked, no royal title of his is a
burden to her. At first glance, she looks thirty years old at most, but heavy bags under her eyes, stretch
marks on her neck and open wings-arms, strands of grey hair outlining her young face, every trace of
exhaustion and rough life Norman cannot even begin to understand ages her significantly. She smiles,
and Norman thinks this strange, openly affectionate to his best friend lady might be even more
beautiful than his own Mother.

He watches Ray melt in her embrace and wishes for his Mom to hug him like that at least once.

"What will you be having, Ray?" She asks, and her voice reminds Norman of his nanny he has never
even had who used to sing him lullabies before bed. "The usual?"

Ray simply nods, not at all bothered by the casual address. The orphans called him by his name, too.
A shadow passes over Norman's face; if someone called him anything other than his title in the
Northern Province, a quick death would be the most merciful punishment.

"And your friend?" She doesn't ask who he is, carefully polite and distant, clearly feeling something
tense from his figure.

"The same, thank you." He tries not to sound condescending, and the request doesn't come off as an
order only because Ray lets go of her to hold Norman's hand again. Reassuring. Grounding. Warm.

When she leaves, Ray thinks it was a mistake to come here with his friend. It has always been hard
for him to connect with people, children are afraid of him, adults are wary for no reason. But it is
alright. He squeezes Norman's hand, kisses the bony knuckles quickly, sneakily, and watches his pale
cheeks slowly turning a pretty shade of pink. Norman doesn't avert his eyes.

The mysterious lady returns to them empty-handed and bows in their general direction. Ray stands up
to meet her, and Norman follows them on the second floor, gently guided by his little Prince. He
observes the woman carefully, wondering how she understood so quickly who he is.

No one really cares who you are here... except for her. Information broker.

The room they enter is a strange one. Two expensive couches face each other, a table in between them
with a single lit candle and two cups of milk, no windows. Nothing else. The woman sits on the
farthest from the door couch, and the atmosphere of interrogation with psychological torture weighs
in the air so heavily that Norman freezes near the door, ready to bolt at any given moment.

"You shouldn't be so afraid of me, Your Highness." She smiles, the light of the candle playing tricks
on her face, distorting her features into something sinister, demonic. "I come from the Ratri bloodline.
My name is Minerva."
The moment Norman takes a step towards her, the door slams shut behind him. That doesn't seem to
rattle him as he drags Ray to the couch across from hers. The softness of the pillows and of her smile
almost laugh mockingly at his face.

"Ratri? You mean to tell me you're my... But how could you? How could you abandon Her?!"

"Norman..." Ray whispers, pained, worried, left out of the context, his hand squeezed so tightly he
cannot feel much of it anymore.

"I do not welcome your attitude, Your Highness." Her tone is polite, her address is proper, yet the
meaning behind her words is cutting, a threat. "If you do not wish for your secrets to be known to my
Prince, stop this farce and let go of him."

Ray hisses quietly, flexes his hand, looks at Norman in badly hidden fear (how come you are so
strong), and watches him getting paler and paler, so white that his lips and skin might even be one
colour.

"Please, Ray." Minerva's tone changes to a gentle, motherly one when she looks at her Prince again.
"Treat yourself to some honeyed milk. I prepared it just for you." She pauses, and her voice is steel
again. "And your friend. Have no fear: I did not poison your share."

The glass of honeyed milk is as tasty as Ray remembers, but the stares that Minerva and Norman
share taint his drink with dark mold born out of sheer mutual animosity. He cannot possibly drink it
anymore.

Definitely a mistake.

"There's a rumour spreading inside the castle walls." Ray starts, hesitant, snaps Minerva's and
Norman's attention towards him, and breathes easier. "I do not understand its source. There are so
many people afraid of Norman, and I think they just don't understand him... He did nothing wrong,
and he is so hated for no reason." His words are meek, yet they shoot directly into Minerva's guilty
consciousness. She casts a glance at the Northern Prince again, and it is not so torturing anymore.
"How do I... help people understand?"

Norman stares at him, and Ray wants the ground to swallow him whole. Yes, he wanted to run away
with him, yes, it shouldn't matter anymore, yes, it is pathetic, but he still couldn't help himself. The
only one he sees when he looks at Norman is the sweetest, most intelligent, caring person he has ever
known, and it hurtswhen others cannot see this, when instead of an angel they only see a fallen one.

He wanted Minerva to understand that. Yet he only meets with her kind, pitying gaze that tells him
again: he is the only one who will ever see this.

"I heard you scared a kid with only your eyes, Your Highness." She starts, her tone carefully neutral.
If only Ray held Norman's hand, he would have felt him tense again, ready to snap. "She saw
something within you that scarred her, and it is still hard to talk to her about you. It is weird you, Ray,
didn't notice this. I suppose you were too immersed in His Northern Highness to care..."

Conny... A cold feeling of dread surges through him, his mouth is agape, how could he have forgotten
about Conny?...

"The people here, even though they don't believe in any Gods, are still surprisingly superstitious,"
Minerva says and looks carefully at Norman, checking for his reaction. She reads nothing. "The kids
and the animals are known to recognize the demons inside the people corrupted by the darkness, and
you see... People believe what they want to believe. As soon as they started believing, the signs of
your demonic nature appeared one by one. A little royal manipulator who doesn't respect anyone but
our only Prince, and in return he is ready to abandon his title for you, to run away with you...
Fantastical scenario. It almost seems to them like you came to the castle just for that reason. To
destroy our nation from within."

Ray slumps against the pillows, covers his face with both hands, and begs for her to stop. If they run
away, people will hate Norman even more? No, no, no, no, that's not, that's not at all what Ray
wanted...

"But that's not what you asked me. I'm just afraid it is out of your hands. You could try to be kinder to
people, your Northern Highness. Maybe they will see you in a better light, though it surely will not
stop the rumours from spreading. If you want more substantial advice, you should pay me for the
information I've already given you."

Ray sighs and puts a hefty sack filled with gold coins on the table, instantly regretful he came to
Minerva out of his sheer stupid egoism. This was supposed to be their money for a few months in the
freedom.

"I do not have more, Minerva," Ray says, drained morally, understanding that his plans to run away
are brutally murdered by this cruel, wise woman. The only Prince of Sachevia turns to his friend to
explain further. "I stole the money. I don't get any allowance, you see. I'm not exactly allowed outside
the palace walls."

Norman's eyes are glassy and impossible to read, but his hand is uncharacteristically warm and
comforting when he intertwines their fingers. Ray tenses for a second only to get red at the ears and
dizzy at the head, embarrassed and pleased by the open affection and support.

"I have the money, Minerva. But I'm not interested in the opinion of others." He throws a single
glance at Ray, and it tells his little Prince that his opinion is the only one that truly matters. "Does Ray
frequent your place often?"

"Oh, no, maybe a couple of times a month at most. He is so helpful whenever he visits. I'm sure his
fiancee is a wonderful influence on him."

Why would she say this to him?!

Ray squints, studying Norman's reaction. If the news about Ray's fiancee worries him, he does not
show it.

"There is some information I would also like to get." Norman starts and sits closer to Ray, their hips
touching, and he covers his little Prince's back with a cape, carefully hugging his shoulders.
Protective. "It's about another cursed being in the castle."

Ray gulps audibly, nervously hits the table with a knee, and his glass of honeyed milk breaks, falls on
the floor.

"Oh, dear." Minerva sighs tiredly and throws a looktowards Norman.

"You don't need to pay her for that. I am a cursed Prince of this Kingdom." Ray shuts his eyes, shuts
himself, curls into a ball, a broken Prince whose crown shattered his skull.
"Your Highness." Minerva's voice is so tender it feels like a hug even if she doesn't even move a
muscle to physically comfort him. "It was just a series of unfortunate events, you can't blame yourself
for that, you're beloved wherever you go-"

"I killed my nanny, my sister, my Father." Ray wails, borderline hysterical, and smooths his speech
into an indifferent monotone just as unexpectedly. "It was me. In a span of two years. That's why I'm
cursed. I kill everyone I care for." He flinches as if remembering, gasps, and suddenly looks at
Norman, subconsciously trying to throw his hand off of him. "I hope I won't... Norman..."

"My Prince, it was a coincidence. Everything just a co-"

"No, it wasn't! Mother hates me for this, and she is always right, she- Mother, she knows best-"

"Ray." Norman's voice is near Ray's ear, and his warm hug effectively shuts the little Prince up. It is
so encompassing, absolute, and loving that Ray prays to all the deities for him not to start crying. "I'm
here. Everything is okay. You're in no danger, and I'm not going to die, you hear?" He repeats the
same words over and over again like a mantra, swaying Ray in the embrace. It is working. "Would
you mind, please, if this lovely lady explained your story to me? I'm sorry. I see your trust in her, and
I would like to know the rational truth." He stresses the 'rational' part, but Ray is not in the right state
of mind to analyze this. "I'm paying, of course."

'This lovely lady' doesn't seem to like his suggestion. They share a conversation only with their eyes,
excluding Ray from the dialogue, coming to a silent consensus.

"If you don't want milk, can I have it? It's a long story to tell." She coughs and takes long sips from a
glass without receiving proper permission.

It doesn't take her long to begin.

"Isabella used to be the warmest queen our Kingdom has ever known. She came from a place of love,
a Verhs Princess, a cousin of Her Royal Majesty. Isabella's marriage with our King Leslie was born
out of blissful adoration and coincidence. Our poets still sing of their love—a King who found his
Princess in the middle of nowhere, a spark so bright between them it blinded everyone who saw them
together. It wasn't a political marriage either, yet it brought two countries together. Everyone reaped
fruit from the union of these two souls. It was destiny in its purest, most gracious shape.

She gave birth to our little Highness, our sun, and became a Mother to all of us. Her Majesty wrapped
pieces of her heart in a handkerchief and handed it out to anyone miserable, hungry, lonely, anyone
willing to accept a piece of her bottomless love.

A long decade passed like a dream. We wouldn't be so surprised if historians called this time our
Golden Age. It was darkened only by Her Majesty's periodical stress that she was unable to give birth
to a daughter anymore. You see, Verhs is a highly matriarchal country, ruled exclusively by women.
As a noble lady from a royal court with these kinds of expectations, she wanted a daughter, in her
eyes a true heir to our King's throne, even if the love for her first child never seemed to lessen.

The time passed, and we understood that she drowned herself in others. She helped in the orphanages,
built new houses, sang, danced, played the violin along with the street musicians, personally knew
and supported every farmer in the country, bringing our dear Highness along with her everywhere she
went. The castle walls couldn't contain her.
We were so sure she submitted to her fate, and she probably thought so, too. Our admiration filled her
but never to the brim; we should have guessed that this void in her heart would never quite go away.
We were blinded, and if the little Prince wants to put the blame on someone, it should be us for not
noticing this sooner.

It all started when His Highness reached his tender nine years of age. Our Queen and Prince were
coming back from the reception in Verhs Kingdom on horseback, and the Prince complained that he
was tired from a long trip in this manner. Her Majesty is a soft person, and in the nearest small town,
they asked for a carriage.

A casual ride, somewhat bumpy roads—Her Majesty Isabella probably had thought that she should
have done something about the state of them—it all came to naught when His Highness Ray saw
something peculiar in the distance. So peculiar, in fact, that it urged him to lean out of the window
with his whole body, and Isabella got so terrified she yanked him back with force.

Something had happened. No one still has come to understand what exactly occurred, whose fault that
was. The wheel of the carriage broke, hurting the horse, enraging and scaring it, the door opened, and
a Mother and her son fell hard on the road. The Queen protected the Prince with her whole body, and
everything seemed at peace again. A coincidence. A series of unfortunate events. Nothing bad
happened.

Everyone wanted to believe that. Only later the King proclaimed the Time of Mourning. Her Majesty
was pregnant, and she miscarried.

She was never aware that the unadulterated joy of being a Mother again was waiting for her around
the corner. Yet when she tried to snatch it nothing rested on her palm but a lycoris flower, the colour
of her daughter's blood.

The unborn child was named Lilith, in honour of Her Majesty's Mother.

She came back to us, her people, only once after this, telling us from behind the castle walls, pale,
sick, hoarse, shattered, that she was recovering. Unfortunately, everything got even worse with time.

Not even a month passed before His Majesty took His Highness for a hunt, to help his little
abandoned son recover as well. They have been the best archers in our domain, and a hunt together
bonded them extremely. A smooth, planned routine, nothing should have happened.

We later found out that despite their skill and the number of people protecting them, the Prince had
separated from everyone else, and a pack of wild wolves had surrounded him. This kind rarely
migrates in our area; Her Majesty Isabella thought that it had been His Highness' pride at fault. He
had noticed the strange footprints, a weird stillness in the forest first, and had wanted to eradicate the
danger himself, to impress his Father. No one could blame him—the boy nearly lost his Mother.

When the royal hunt party came back, we held another Time of Mourning. We lost our gracious King
to a pack of wild wolves when he had tried to protect his son. Her Majesty herself left the castle for
the first time in a whole month, secretly, with a trusted group of people, to gather his scattered,
ripped-apart body pieces for a proper burial.

It's a blur after that, for all of us.

With a full grasp of government's politics, she arranged a marriage between an heir of Verhs and our
sun, never allowing him to leave the palace ever again. He's had a great example before him—so
swamped with foreign affairs, she completely forgot about her people, and we have never seen her in
person again. She abandoned her orphanages, kids under her protection turned into thieves and
beggars, the houses were left deserted and empty, void of people's warmth, the streets went eerily
silent, and even the harvest rotted and scattered in the strongest winds as if imitating the King's
decaying state. A hungry year followed.

Our Mother abandoned us, but we had to persevere. We loved her dearly still, and we were overjoyed
when Verhs sent her a governess, fearing for the neglected Prince. Everyone understood her true
purpose, and no one minded at all. If this peculiar sort of love could have helped Her Majesty feel
something other than bitter grief and endless emptiness where her massive heart once was, then that is
what she deserved. Krona, a woman from the people, brought a piece of our Queen's home and
warmth with her, and we caught wind of their private smiles. She was a tenderhearted woman, stout, a
countryside kind, she made everyone in the palace fall in love with her loud expressiveness and her
compassionate, wide-open soul. After being so still for so long, the palace became lively again. His
Highness Ray got into a habit of calling her Sister Krona, that's how close they were. We heard him
giggle in her sturdy embrace for the first time since his Father's demise.

As it was, not for long. The road to hell is paved with good intentions; her insistence that His
Highness had needed regular walks under the sun to grow healthy brought everything she worked so
hard for to naught. Sister Krona drowned in the rough waters in an attempt to rescue the Prince. He
later said that he had tried to save a dog cub from the current and simply hadn't calculated his lack of
strength. Neither had she, apparently.

And that's where we are. A year has passed since her death. Her Majesty's grudge has finally formed
into a face. A scapegoat. An easy way out.

That's how our tale of a cursed little Prince whose love is destined to kill you was born. It's nothing
but a fantasy spooky story, and we are painfully aware of that, Your Highness. You're but a child. You
don't deserve this."

The woman stops talking, and the room takes shape again. Norman suddenly understands the crowd
on the first floor: people with eternal circles under their eyes, concealing a tragedy behind their overly
loud happiness. Minerva doesn't look at Norman, not afraid of his judgement; she looks at the form of
the dark Prince, curled up in Norman's embrace. Her gaze tells him of everlasting forgiveness, regret,
understanding, and he doesn't meet it. He doesn't want to meet it.

Ray's breath grates Norman's ear when he mutters,

"I should have been the one to die."

The words manifest like a disease in Norman's body. The world shakes dangerously before his eyes,
his skin is full of blisters wherever Ray brushes him, and nausea crips up to his lungs, his throat, his
brain, corroding everything it touches. An image of stone-cold Ray, just another royal figure in a line
of others, a sick imitation of life flashes before his eyes, and the Northern Prince wants to go home.

He should have known better. He shouldn't have gotten involved this deeply. He should have
understood the consequences, but it is too late: a gruesome feeling forms in Norman's heart, twisting,
molding it into an ugly nest infested with hideous snakes. They whisper to him of the hypocritical
hatred that can be born only if one starts truly caring.

His next words are calculated, logical, fair. Ruthless.

"If she hates you for something that wasn't your fault then she probably has never loved you in the
first place."

Wasn't your fault.

Norman's words reverberate in his ears, turn his skin into a milliard of pleasant needles, and Minerva
reads from his lips a whisper never meant for her,

"Let's go home."

As soon as a sack of money thrice as heftier than Ray's falls on the table, the door opens, and she
stands up, bows to them, effectively ending all eye contact with the Princes. Not a word is shared
between them, heavy footsteps bellow in her ears. When Minerva's sure they are gone, she
straightens, deep sorrow and regret outlining her features, a grey tint on her skin, a mark of a person
who doesn't have long to live.

The road back to the castle feels like a lost dream. The drunk men are lifeless marionettes, the scary
dark alleyways are tasteless decorations, the charred house is a toy, everything is dreary, unreal, bar
the Princes' linked palms.

One dark passage, a message from Ray's fingers that Norman rememorizes, a dark statue of a woman,
representing a dead child of the same name in her wings, another passage... Everything is artificial,
bland. Tired.

Until the warm colours and smells of Ray's bedroom outline Norman's fatigue, bringing awareness to
his gaze. His eyes open and close sleepily, but he is in a far better state than Ray who supports his
head with a palm, already nodding off on his feet. Norman directs him towards the massive bed and
pushes playfully.

"Don't tell me I have to undress you for bed, Your Highness." He bows mockingly, and a muffled
grunt from the bed's direction is his only answer.

Ray takes his dirty clothes off begrudgingly, annoyed and aware of Norman's gaze drilling his back.
The chilly wind from the open windows makes him shiver, alerting him of something malevolent
behind his bare back, and he ducks under the covers, protected and warm.

The sounds of a window closing and footsteps nearing the door make the Prince peek out of his
blanket in a flash of white panic.

"Hey, now. Don't leave me." He whispers, and it sounds weird, reliant, and weak. He changes his tone
to an even, rational one in an instant. "That would be suspicious if you exited my chambers in the
dead of the night. You should stay."

Ray hears a heavy sigh and follows Norman's dark form turn around towards the table near the half-
closed window. The Sachevia's Prince frowns slightly when his friend sits on a chair: that is not
exactly what he had in mind... He doesn't voice his protest, strangely content for a minute to just
watch Norman under the moonlight. The only art piece in this room, he closes his eyes.

The quiet of Ray's chambers is caressing Norman's ears like the melody of a young prodigy violinist.
He is listening to the leaves of the tree giant rustle in the wind, to Ray's tired inhales and exhales, to
the serene beating of his heart, to the delicate flickering of fire on a candle in someone else's room. It
is a masterpiece that could never exist in the North with its howling blizzards dominating his ears.
Here, it is a harmony of sounds, and yet Norman cannot get enough of that one particular note in the
whole composition.

He concentrates on the rhythm of Ray's breaths, mutes every other sound, and strokes the petals of the
burgundy dahlia on the table. Soft, a shade of Ray's favourite brown, leaning to Norman's touch as if
he is the sun, the flower is his little Prince's heart that beats a little too erratically under his fingers.

"What's wrong?" Norman asks, and his voice destroys the violin's song like a snapped string or
broken glass.

"I can't fall asleep when you're not sleeping."

Are you afraid?

"I'm worried," Ray answers, and Norman's fingers freeze on the petals in response; the cold from his
skin slowly paints the flower a sickly white colour of thin frost that can only be born from Norman's
own heart.

The Northern Prince recoils from the dahlia, burgundy and alive, shakes off the illusion, and promises
to himself to never get closer to this flower ever again.

"What do you suggest?" Norman redirects his gaze to his little Prince, half-asleep, bundled in a warm
quilt, and wishes he could freeze the time to be here in this moment for a little bit longer.

"Sleep." Ray pauses, and Norman barely hears his whisper behind the deafening, rapid drum of their
hearts. "With me. Just this once."

He promised, but how can he refuse if the flower is so painfully beautiful?

The dark eyes follow his every movement as he stands up, takes off the cape, the action torturously
slow as if he is peeling off his own skin, terrified of the vulnerability and deformity of his bare bones.
Norman's fingers move to undress him from a white tunic.

"It's okay." A whisper or maybe an echo of a saint choir interrupts him. "You can lie down like this. I
don't mind."

Strangely comforted, he steps closer to the bed, fully clothed. Norman's knee connects with a mattress
so unexpectedly soft the boy nearly falls down on his friend yet manages to straighten his posture just
in time.

"How do you sleep here?" He mumbles as he lies down a hand apart from Ray. "It's like a cloud..."

"What's wrong with the clouds?" Ray laughs quietly and shares his quilt tenderly, covers Norman with
it, and it is a warm cloud, too.

"It'll make one soft."

Ray wants to ask what's wrong with being soft then but bites his lips seeing how tense Norman is
under the covers, unsafe, soul naked.

"Can I hug you?" Ray asks carefully, quietly, wary of the purposeful distance between them. His eyes
follow Norman's every move for any sign of discomfort or visible rejection.

"Of course."
First, it is the smell. A cocoon of old books, red honey, and a particular note that can only be
described as Ray envelops Norman, traps him, and kisses his whole body all at once, presses against
him, and he is getting a little bit dizzy... A weird kind, addicting, and sweet.

Next, it is the touch. Ray's bare firm hands hug Norman's back, pressing their bodies oddly close so
that Norman's face is directly against Ray's collarbone. The eye contact is broken. The Sachevia's
Prince communicates differently: he brushes white curls, tugs gently, and watches in silent awe their
colour change in the shadow and under the moonlight. Norman feels hazily that it is he who's being
comforted after all.

He is burning, he is melting, his eternally freezing fingers move to soothe Ray's hurt and bare
shoulder blades, and even Norman's hands are warming up, too. A relieved sigh escapes Ray's lips,
heavy and prolonged, and he lightly pulls at Norman's hair, painting his cheeks an embarrassingly hot
pink along the way.

Norman has never felt so utterly warm in his whole life.

The comfortable quiet settles between them, yet Norman still feels something bothering his little
Prince. He tries not to doze off immediately, finally embracing his fire so completely.

"Norman?" There he is.

"Mmh?"

"I want to marry you."

Oh. How sweet.

Norman laughs one of his completely enamoured chuckles, and Ray's heart stops. It is probably the
same feeling adults experience when they confess their hearts to another.

Please, don't say no.

"Aren't you already engaged?"

Ray shouldn't have expected Norman to disregard Minerva's frivolous comment, and reality hits him
in the face unexpectedly, turning his lips to a grimace of offended moue.

"...I forgot about that. Can't I marry you both?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Norman says matter-of-factly, and Ray wants to find just as much
disappointment in his tone as there resides within himself, and yet there is nothing.

"That's not fair." He only manages to utter. "I love you, too."

There is no answer from Norman for a long, long, longtime. He is trying to control his breathing to
seem indifferent, impartial, casual, not at all affected by these tiny little words that Ray unknowingly
carved into his skin, and they scar, itch, bother him, and he is bleeding dry. The Northern Prince hugs
his best friend even closer, needing him, murmuring into his soul,

"No. It certainly isn't fair. I-"

Ray's already asleep. Yet Norman still whispers, embarrassed, uncertain, breathless,
I love you, too.
 Childhood. Her Royal Highness
Chapter Notes

This took literal forever to write oh my god. November was a hard month to live through.
A usual reminder to check out the playlist: Spotify or VK. A piano composition by Helz.

We're still at a build-up phase, but from this point onward at the end of some major chapters
there will be letters from Norman to Ray that have some spoiler potential. They uncover his
inner thoughts rather well (and for that reason Ray will never see them, lol) and will become
more insightful with time.

P. S. Quite some time passed, but now this chapter has a commissioned illustration by
my_ce_li_um! You will find it at the very end, after Norman's letter. Some chapters will have
illustrations as well, but for now, it's a work in progress.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Her Highness, the Crown Princess of the Verhs Empire, is coming for a visit in a week, and the castle
inhabitants forget about the danger lurking above the Northern heir's head. They gossip so much
about her grace and inner light that Norman feels sick already, imagining her as a typical little noble
lady who doesn't understand properly what burden her title actually carries.

He has heard of her before, but the very concept of a Crown Princess has never sat right with him.
Ray's constant gushings about her do not help her case. Kind, the very best, proper, healthy, keenly
intelligent, fair, elegant... An ideal match for his little Prince. Boring. Irrelevant.

Norman wishes Ray stopped this.

When the awaited day of Her Highness' arrival comes, Norman thinks he knows more about her than
about his best friend, from how many little siblings she has to the curve of her lips when she smiles.
He is endlessly irritated and needlessly cold to Ray, bitter that they cannot even hold hands in her
almighty presence. Everyone in the throne room (although there is actually no throne and even Her
Majesty Isabella is standing) is waiting for the future Empress with bated breath.

When the massive doors open, Norman redirects his gaze reluctantly from Ray to a very strange, very
tall man entering the room. His shadow is so abnormally long it reaches Norman on the other side of
the room; his eyes under a huge, ridiculously out-of-place hat slit to communicate something directly
to the Northern Prince, and he nods imperceptibly in acknowledgement.

He doesn't immediately notice the little Princess, hidden in this man's shadow. Frazzled from a long
road, dressed in simple white travel clothes, her hair sticks to the sides, burning bright like chaotic
fire, and her green eyes scan the area, lightning with unadulterated love when she finally notices Ray.

She is nothing at all like Norman imagined her to be.

Simple, the Princess wears her emotions on her dirty sleeves when she discards all the etiquette and
runstowards Ray and hugs him with all her might, almost squealing in delight. Even Her Majesty
looks at her differently: for the first time since Norman has seen her, Isabella's perfect posture eases,
her dry lips form into a crooked smile, and she radiates so much love from her gaze that Ray couldn't
even dream of seeing.

Everything seems so fake, so unnatural, and awkward that when Her Highness comes near Norman, a
respectful distance apart, she probably recognizes his malice well enough. There is a question in her
eyes as the Prince silently, motionlessly assaults her with a desire to dominate her, put her in her
place, and extinguish her cheap pleasantries, her fire. He expects an elegant curtsy, but she draws
near, not at all affected by his demeanor, and holds his hand, shakes it in a very strong grip full of
healing calluses.

Huh...?

The whole room tenses, watching the exchange unfold. The little Princess doesn't let go of him, her
grip tightens as she says,

"It is my greatest pleasure to finally become acquainted with you, your Highness. I truly hope we can
be good friends from now on."

Norman's eyes squint in thickly veiled hostility and an illusion of a smile.

"Your Highness, but of course..." Another powerful squeeze of his hand interrupts him, and he doesn't
manage to hide the pain twisting his facial features. How? Who...

"Please, call me Emma. We are of the same station so it shall not be a bother to act amicably, no?"

Norman's eyes dart to look at clueless Ray, watching in sincere joy his best friends getting along. Oh,
Ray...

Emma lets go of Norman, perfectly composed and cheery, a smile so sweet it terrifies the Prince as he
hides his trembling hand behind his back in a perfect bow before her.

Perfect. That is who she is.

Perfection in the eyes of the castle inhabitants, she is never afraid or condescending to help the
servants or dance frivolously with the passing ministers. During their shared dinners, her manners are
flawless, and Her Majesty Isabella talks to her as if the Princess is her long-lost best friend. She tags
along to the library with the Princes and interrupts their parallel reading, coming up with stories
herself, so perfect, her imagination so vivid, her speech so emotional, the pictures of miserable
chained dragons, the talking willows with the souls of childish immortals, and the flying sea ships
with torn wings paint themselves in the boys' minds.

Everyone is in love with Emma. Norman could have felt something akin to admiration for this
ultimate Princess if only Ray wasn't in love with her, too.

His eyes glisten when she tells him of her adventures around the world, encouraging him into a
discussion (Can you imagine the hatred the people must feel for each other? What would you do if
this kind of riot arose in Sachevia?). Ray tries to draw her sneakily in the corners of the book pages,
an ideal copy, a talent beyond measure; he takes her to the castle garden without Norman, and they
whisper something into each other's ears, giggling, happy... Ray had only seemed happy when
Norman was around. Not anymore.

Emma has his full attention whenever she is with him, and Norman brushes Ray's hands, silently
demanding at least this little bit of affection. The little Prince complies, an instinct at this point, their
fingers intertwine, and Norman doesn't feel as lonely and excluded as before.

Yet he simply cannot compare to their years of friendship, and before adoration, something bitter,
ugly is born with bitten heads and rotting teeth.

The next day it is Ray who's touching Norman's hand. He meets not with the familiar coolness of the
skin but with the silk fabric of white gloves. Before the little Prince can come to any conclusions,
Norman stands abruptly and darts to leave the library.

A white glove falls on the floor beside Emma's legs.

"I beg your pardon, m'lady." Norman smiles, sugary sweet, feignedly pleasing, and snatches the glove
from the floor as if bowing before the Princess. He lingers for a couple of seconds to shake the specks
of dust from his pristinely white accessory and meets with Emma's heavy stare. In the eyes of a
perfect Princess, he finds an emotion not so impeccably ladylike: naked, brutal offence.

Norman leaves, satisfied, his message conveyed flawlessly.

It is not hard to find the knights' training hall. The first servant he encounters shivers and gives him
directions in a slightly higher pitch than normal.

The Prince shouldn't have adopted a wolf if it would have the freedom to stroll alone.

The wolf enters an abode of warriors, brave protectors, and royal sovereigns. The place Norman was
raised since the day he learned how to stand up, he recognizes the strained stillness in the room,
weapons of different shapes hanging on the walls; more a gallery singing a hauntingly beautiful
operetta to humanity's cruelty than a training hall where the best hurt the best with the noblest of
intentions.

Norman reaches for a sword, drawn to it like a lunatic; he trails a finger along the sharp blade, careful,
homesick. The cold steel reminds him of endless pain in the muscles, of scars painting his whole body
with sickly faded white screams, of cold days and even colder nights. It erases Ray's beautiful smile
from view, giving way to the howling wolves in the blizzard.

He is home.

Norman slashes the air brutally, sharply, and inhales the air, the illusion of freezing cold of his castle
twists his lungs and sets him right, sets his broken by infinite tenderness bones, gifting him his long-
lost limb in exchange for his heart. He circles the sword around himself experimentally as if he were
warming up frostbitten fingers, finally feeling them again. He raises the sword high...

The door opens, and Norman expects to hear clicking sounds of Emma's impeccable gait, but instead,
a whiff of red honey reaches him, and his swing falters, his hand strikes the air vertically, missing the
imaginary target.

He pretends that was intentional.

"What are you doing here, Ray?" Norman asks, inexhaustibly gentle, doesn't interrupt his training,
almost showing off.

"I'm not a fool, Norman," Ray answers, and his voice echoes, not impressed in the slightest. The little
Prince draws near, disturbingly close so as to stare into Norman's eyes, and the Northern heir's heart
skips a long, sinking beat. It is a pity he cannot feel it anymore. "Why did you challenge Emma to a
duel? What did she do to you? It is a grave offence, and she's been nothing but..."

Sweet. Right.

"No, Ray, what are you talking about," Norman asks, voice mocking if it wasn't so tender. "I just
dropped the glove, and it happened to fall near Emma. I have absolutely no reservations about her,
and I mean her no harm."

He is not lying, not exactly.

"You know. Sometimes..." Ray takes a step back, avoids eye contact, suddenly tense, overly cautious.
"You're so clear to me like I've always known you. And sometimes I don't understand you at all."

They've shared many types of silences before: the tense one when they only tried to figure each other
out, the comfortable one with the casual hand-holding and reading one book, the shy one when they
awoke in one bed with the first words of the day said to each other...

This kind is new. It is a particular type when everyone watches the rope tightening over a cliff, tearing
in the middle, and no one is doing anything to prevent it. Angry for no reason, bitter.

"Do you really care for her that much?" Norman's voice stops the sound of the rope tearing. It is not
enough.

Ray doesn't answer.

Snap.

"I don't want anyone to die because of me ever again, Norman." He sighs, and his words are endless
chunks of black tar thrown onto Norman, snapping, accusing. Guilty. Stupid. Selfish. "I love you too
much to let this happen."

Norman doesn't ask to specify what this 'you' means, exactly. It is not important right now.

"Hey." The Northern Prince starts carefully, suddenly changing the subject altogether. "If you're here,
care to join me in my training? It is not as enjoyable to fight against the air. A skilled opponent is that
much better than my lackluster imagination."

"I'm not sure this is such a great idea. Sword isn't exactly my weapon of choice." Ray fumbles, put in
a sudden corner between the stone walls and Norman's steely cold eyes.

"Don't be humble, your Highness." Norman's voice is heated honey, drawling, unfair. "I saw these
hands of yours, you'll do just fine."

A sound part of Ray's brain comments that raw strength isn't something one needs in a sword fight but
practice, technique, and speed, but he still melts under a compliment. Of course, Norman would
notice Ray's wiry arms, his passion for archery, yet being acknowledged like that is confusingly
flattering.
It would be embarrassing to disagree after this. Ray blushes lightly as if in boyish anticipation. It
fades away, giving way to concealed unease, as soon as Norman offers him a sword of steel from the
wall, edge down.

"Aren't we practicing? Shouldn't we make do with wooden swords?" He asks very carefully and
doesn't accept Norman's hand clenching a sword, deadly, sharp, daunting.

"In my country, wooden swords are a child's play. The only proper training you can receive is the one
where you're in real danger." The Northern Prince lets go of the sword in his other hand, and in the
deafening, echoing clatter of steel on the stone floor he raises Ray's hand and puts it on top of his own
gloved palm. Two hands on one sword hilt. Bare and silk. A whisper that does not dare to echo. "But I
will not hurt you, Ray. And you will never ever be able to hurt me back."

"Okay." Ray gulps, endlessly shy of their contact. It is the same as holding hands, and yet it's... "But
how can you be so sure?"

"I don't know about Emma, but I will stay alive for you even if you try very hard to murder me."
Norman strokes Ray's knuckles quietly, casually affectionate. Ray thinks for a second he is going
insane. "I promise you."

"But, but..." Words, Ray! "Can't we at least wear some sort of armor?"

"What do you have to lose, Ray?"

Not a question but a pointed, intentional thrust to the open heart. A heart nobody else but Norman
cared enough to look for.

And find. At last.

Really now. What does he have to lose? His life? Hilarious.

Ray takes the sword from Norman's grasp and quickly adapts to a feeling of a weapon in his hand,
clearly amateur but strangely, coolly confident. Norman could watch him twirl the sword in his hands
every day of their lives; it sets a queer sense of belonging in his long-forgotten heart when a person he
loves the most tries out the passion that has given meaning to his life.

The door creaks, and Norman knows perfectly well who has come without even looking in her
direction. Too bad.

"Wait for your turn, Your Highness!" Norman says loudly.

"Norman! You told me that..." Ray gasps, unabashedly shocked Norman liedto him.

"Relax, Ray. I'm just interested in her as my opponent. I promised not to hurt you, and I will not hurt
her as well." Not badly, that is.

Emma sighs, expressively loud, teasing.

"Could you get a move on, loverboys? I have places to be and things to do besides watching you..."
Emma hums in thought. "Do whatever it is that you do."

"We will not delay you any further, Your Highness." Norman says in the same sickeningly sweet tone
which Ray starts to recognize as forced feelings that make his friend sick.
Norman raises a sword from the floor, and Ray stares at the way the gloved palm grips the hilt. For a
second he wants to bethat sword.

Holy Mother.

"You ready, Ray?"

Norman doesn't wait for a confirmation.

He thrusts Ray's open shoulder, and Ray evades out of the way with his whole body, eyes betrayed
and shocked; he learns fast, takes a sword with both hands, and changes his posture into a perfect
defensive stance. Flawlessly, naturally genius.

The sturdiest wall, he blocks an attack to his knees, predicts a powerful swing to the head, stops it,
clashof steel, Ray throws Norman off, ducks out of the way, block, block, block.

"Ray, this will not do." Norman pouts, not even a little bit out of breath. "You're no punching bag of
mine. Come on." Block. "You will not hurt me."

Norman slashes Ray's abdomen diagonally—screech! A perfect block. He aims for Ray's head, the
blade close, close, closer to the temples—a block with both hands, strong, tense. Impressive. Boring.

The eyes of Norman's favourite Prince never leave the sword, anticipating its trajectory, brilliant,
deaf. Afraid to hurt back.

Norman stops the onslaught of his murderous attacks, looks into Ray's shaking gaze, and his whisper
is so small and quiet it creeps into Ray's eyes, nose, ears, makinghim listen.

"You said I looked pretty. Am I prettier than Emma?"

"What?!" Ray nearly screams, recoils, feeling his vision, cheeks, ears turning red, eyes darting to
Emma in a panic. Oh no, he knows...

"I know that yes."

Their swords finally clash, screeching, springing back, and Ray understands: it is a test. In terms of
raw strength, he is the winner. Yet he grows weak, weak under the pressure of Norman's eyes,
demanding an answer, threatening to rip all confessions from his throat.

"Say it."

Ray doesn't say it; he lashes out, provocated, suicidal, swords collide again, brute force overpowers
his rival momentarily, Norman bends slightly back; someone gets cocky, their eyes meet, it is almost
too easy.

As if.

Norman darts down, quick, sly, unexpected, throwing Ray's momentum along with him. The northern
wolf doesn't let the fox fall: he presses the sword flush against Ray's wrist, supporting his raised hand.

What...?

A cheeky smile, a slight turn of Norman's wrist, a centimeter between the sword and the neck.
Ray freezes. Afraid of even a gulp, feeling the closeness of the cold steel.

Lost. Still alive.

"That was a bit too easy," Norman says, taking a step back, disappointedly victorious.

Ray's sword is still raised high, useless.

"You gave up too easily, your Highness. You could have easily disarmed me."

Ray's shaking, limbs numb. He doesn't care.

"Do you wish to know how?"

"No. No, I don't." Ray huffs, brushes off the feeling of utter dissatisfaction, and hurries to Emma's
side.

Maybe he is just not cut out for it... The sword has never been his favourite weapon after all. He
should stick to bows, perfecting what he is best at, and ignore his wounded ego.

Emma throws him an empathetic glance, puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it barely in silent
support. Surprisingly, along with frustration, she finds something else in his gaze. Something foreign
and shy, completely overwhelming—she discovers relief and gratitude in the pits of his eyes.

Emma exhales, exhausted, and heads straight for awaiting Norman.

"What do they feed you in your Province, Your Highness?" Emma screams across the hall, trying to
sound amused and chipper.

"Oh, your food is far better than any delicacy from the Northern Province, I assure you," Norman
answers, clearly referring to the clashing of the swords moment when it seemed like Ray would win
with his sole superior strength.

Unlike Sachevia's Prince, Emma shouldn't underestimate Norman. Pale, anemic skin, malnourished,
physically weaker than an average boy, he still has amazingly sharp reflexes and years of masterful
swordsman practice.

She is not going to play by his rules, in his comfortable territory. The boy who spit at her face, treated
her like a second-place lady, charmed her best friend, her family into a puppet-like state... What are
you plotting, Norman?

Her knuckles tighten on the handle of the sword, the leather of her gloves creaks sharply. They are
necessary: the gloves give her a little more grip.

When Emma reaches her opponent, she doesn't wait for his first move. She circles him carefully, her
step is heavy and slow, a massive bear reluctant to fight a voracious wolf covered in dried blood.

"You have an impressive stance, m'lady. Has Barbara perhaps taught you how to protect yourself?"

Emma stumbles, gasps, her grip slackens; Norman's eyes slowly light up with an emotion so dark and
ravenous they capture her full attention for a blink of a moment.

A mistake.
A calculated strike to her heart. A tear on the tunic too baggy for her small form.

Not even a threat.

Her eyes squint in raw, flaming fury; she copies Norman's aggressive stance, disturbingly, coldly
correct, and, like a shattered mirror, wildly thrusts Norman's shoulder, slashes his abdomen, hits his
temples. A magnificent copycat technique with the added effect of her own style.

Slow. Ruthless. Easy to predict.

Norman blinks, carefully aware of her heavy, deadly strikes, blocks, counterattacks, easy. Strange. His
own twisted shadow he cannot defeat. He doesn't miss a murderous intent in her green eyes, a sharp
twist of her hand forward: she thrusts a sword like a lance towards his abdomen, an irregularity, and
he jumps back. Just in time. Out of her reach. Not even a scratch.

Huh... Is she actually trying to kill him?

Her copycat facade drops, her movements stop making sense, she lets go of the hilt to grab a sharp
blade with her gloved palms, secure and safe, and raises the sword high, high, fast, Norman doesn't
understand, doesn't understand, what is go-

The red bestia aims to hit him with a hilt like a warhammer.

A stupid move, reckless, easy to block but not for Norman. Shocked, he gasps and evades, his
flawless elegance vanishes when he nearly trips, nearly falls, and Emma hits the air, smashing
Norman's defenses to a pulp. She redirects her attack and swings the sword in a circle. A brutal hit in
the armpit makes the Prince gasp, and he opens his abdomen for her next attack, reflexively, for a
brief second, to soothe the pain-

BITCH.

She closes in, he doesn't blink, she punches him to the solar plexus hard, practiced, and he cannot
breathe, he doubles down, a clatter of steel on the wooden floor, bitch, bitch, bitch-

"My win."

The tears in Norman's eyes do not allow him to see Her Highness holding two swords in her hands,
and he thanks the Goddess for this. However, he wishes he faced this humiliation instead of hearing
Ray applaud her victory, screaming "You're such a brute, Emma!" in absolute adoration. He failed, he
failed, and he is laughing breathy, insane, loud, crying, he holds his abdomen with both hands and
draws near Emma, steps dragging, a wounded beast. His eyes promise her torture she could never
imagine, and for a second she tenses, takes a step back, cautious fear overshadowing relief from her
victory.

Norman takes Emma's hand in his and shakes it. Silk and leather.

"You've proven to me you're a person to be reckoned with." He speaks, still a bit hoarse. His crooked
posture is another bow before her.

She slaps his hand away.

"I wasn't trying to prove anything to you, Your Highness."

"But of course, you weren't," Norman reassures her, and his voice is sweet, genuinely tender, hidden
affection leaking through the cracks in the defenses Emma herself shattered.

"You guys were so impressive!" Ray hops near them and puts a hand on each of his friends' shoulders.
Norman immediately straightens, proud and the same height as Emma again. "I could learn a lot from
you, you're actual beasts with swords! Wow."

Norman extinguishes a toxic flicker of jealousy in the cold forest of his soul. He throws it elsewhere.

"Beast, huh?" He sighs, contemplating. "Are all Princesses taught how to fight like that in your
Empire, Your Highness? Or did Barbara..."

Ray's fingers squeeze Norman's shoulder with warning force, and Emma's eyes lose focus for a
second, flickering, dimming, empty, full of repressed, agonizing grief. It is gone like it has never been
there, but Norman looks for it, and he predictably finds every trace of fire that burned her forest to the
ground.

"I think we are all very tired." Ray smiles, an intermediary between them, cutting the question short.
"Besides, it is late. We should get to bed."

"I'm sleeping with you," Norman states, nonchalant, out of nowhere. A flaunting claim.

"Ah, sure. I-I don't mind..." Ray says, suddenly very bashful, very quiet, and for the first time in her
whole life, Emma sees his cheeks dust a shade of rose she has only ever read about in romance
novels.

Oh.

"No."

Her voice is ripples in the air after the thunder tears apart the sky.

"No?..." Norman's voice echoes along.

"No. You're coming with me, Your Highness."

Neither Ray nor Norman manage to make a sound of protest before Emma takes the Northern heir's
hand and drags him out of the training hall. Crushing waves of unsurpassed curiosity rush Norman's
step along her sure gait one corridor after another. Confident that Ray would let them go, no questions
asked.

They stop before a door encrusted with glistening red and orange gems, guarded by no man, a door to
another fairytale world, disturbingly out of place, like a candy a spider would stick to its net. Because
fairytales are made to lure the children into a false sense of security, to devour them when they are
unaware.

Emma draws near, so sure as if she was the spider herself.

"Is that your room?" Norman whispers and wonders if there will be glitter on his hands if he touches
the door. "Why are there no guards?"

"I did not request any." Emma says curtly and throws a weird, quick glance to the corner of the
ceiling, above the needlessly expensive door. Norman subconsciously mirrors her glance.
One eye of a spider stares back at him.

The Prince shuts his eyes, rubs them, thinking that illusions still follow him. When he opens them, it
is not exactly a spider he sees but a one-eyed monkey with an odd hat. The creature is glued to the
walls like the powers of the universe mean nothing to it, and the intensity of its stare shivers Norman
to his core, scratching him, reminding him of someone else.

"Ah. Palvus." Norman sighs in relief. "Yes. With him, you don't need other guards."

"How do you know him?" Emma whispers, her tone incredulous, suddenly hostile. "Oh, never mind.
Come in."

Norman feels someone spying on them, too.

Emma opens the door in a rush, and the brilliance of her room blinds the Prince. More a museum than
a chamber even for an heir of the huge Empire: angels are engraved on the walls decorated with
golden leaves and paintings of impeccable landscapes young noble ladies are supposed to muse over;
Norman's reflection stares back at him from a mirror three times his height, and he glows in the light
of rich scarlet gems, his pale skin turning a shade of unhealthy violet.

Norman's head starts hurting from the abundant wealth, his vision blurry; even the ornament on the
teapot and the teacups on an elegant wooden table near her excessively huge bed are made in pure
gold.

Emma stands near him, afraid to touch, not understanding where his boundaries lie, her eyes scream
of worry; a simple girl with a torn tunic over her massive heart, with rough hands full of calluses,
posture of a fighter, not a Princess, she doesn't belong here. Emma carefully guides him to a table
seat, so soft Ray's bed doesn't even hold a candle to it (the true difference is, however, that Norman
doesn't want to stay here cuddled up in this softness any longer). A teacup worth more than his whole
castle back in the North stares at him, and he redirects his eyes to a bedside table.

A picture made with achingly familiar strokes sits framed on it. A family of four young girls, a tiny
baby boy with a smile sweeter than pancakes, and a woman with gentle features and eyes green lash
forests just like Emma's.

"Yeah. Ray drew us when he came to Verhs with Her Majesty two years ago." Emma starts, sits across
from Norman. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." He answers mechanically, completely enraptured with Ray's drawing style. "It is so
detailed... You're so beautiful in his eyes."

He wishes Ray drew him like he finds him beautiful, too. Like his little Prince loves him.

"He's always had this talent for noticing beauty in people's souls and transferring it to the
expressionless purity of the canvas. That's why Mom asked him to draw us together, as a family."
Emma says and grips a teacup with sudden unease. "It's such a shame he stopped after... After what
happened."

He stopped?... How can this be? Norman clearly saw Ray sneakily drawing Emma in the corners of
the book pages.

"But do you know who he draws these days?" The Princess muses dreamily, puts a long finger on her
chin, teasing, smiling.
No, she cannot be this boasting, can she? He knows, obviously. It is...

"You." They say in unison.

Staggering silence. Eyes round like full moons and zenith suns.

"Oh. Wow." The sun hides under a cloud, her posture is not as impeccable as before, put off and tense.
"This is awkward."

Norman only blinks at her, and his cheek twitches, a nervous tick.

"Okay," Emma says, putting her fists on a table, utensils and teacups clattering as if in fear of her
determination. "Let me talk to you straight, dear cousin."

"Oh no, Your Highness, we have absolutely nothing in common." Norman bristles, irritated, interrupts
her. "I'd rather you didn't bring the familial bond on the table."

"You know how in the old fairytales there is always a certain image of a Princess waiting to be saved
by a gallant Prince right out of her dreams?" Emma says, his complaint flying over her head.

"No. I've never found these types of stories interesting in the slightest."

"You see, girls are supposed to relate to the Princesses. Wait, grin and bear it only because the Prince
is so handsome. It changes their whole perspective on marriage prospects, bends their wills." She
lectures, her grown-up words she must have heard from someone else are a never-ending stream of a
broken dam. "But it will never affect me. I've always liked... Princesses."

Norman raises his eyebrows at a sudden stop in her story.

"And?"

"Princesses, Your Highness." She repeats each word intentionally slow, spelled. "I like Princesses."

Oh.

"Well," Norman says just to dispel the awkward silence, his eyes running in circles. "I guess it is
another thing we don't have in common."

And she starts laughing, boisterous, loud, free, unladylike, open-mouthed, showing teeth, gripping her
sides, beautiful. Pretty in a way Norman has never seen, in a way Ray probably has fallen in love with
her.

"You can be really funny when you're not trying to be a complete prick for no reason." She sighs,
suddenly extremely exhausted, circles under her eyes are the tilted crescents. "Well. I know your
reason. And I've called you to talk because I don't want to fight with you or antagonize you any
further. I want you to feel like family, too, Norman."

Family... A funny word with no substance. Blood ties mean nothing to the Northern Prince. The
cruelest teacher Norman has ever had was his Father, His Majesty, and his Mother has never truly
loved him, locked away in her church, sacrificing herself, her family for Her.

Family? Like Isabella is family to Ray, vengeful, bitter, disdainful? Like Emma is family to Norman,
nonexistent, alien, living a radically different life?
He doesn't want this 'family' thing. The only one he has ever wanted is Ray. Norman looks carefully at
Emma, analyzing her long speeches, trying to detect a lie or two in them.

"You're so kind to him." He sighs, admits the obvious. "Even though you don't love him, you still try
so hard for..."

"Who said I don't love him?"

A statement straight from hell.

"I beg your pardon?" Norman asks, polite, and his eyes take a tint of silver steel, of cold fury again.
"Did I misinterpret the information of you loving Princesses? If so, do forgive me."

"Oh, no, you understood everything just fine," Emma says, and the muscles on her cheeks tense,
screaming of frustration. "I love him so much, like the dearest friend or the closest family member."
She continues, and her words make little sense to the Prince. "And because I care, I ask you to stop
squishing him. We shouldn't fight over him, Norman! He's not a toy to be owned, he is a family, a
person! You will just tear him apart, and, unlike dolls, mind you! no one is capable of sewing back
humans."

She pauses her heated speech suddenly, knits her brows, and adds, an afterthought, a strange worry,

"Or their hearts."

It is easy to talk to Ray without words. His eyes and gestures betray all of his intentions, tones of
emotions, and following words—an easy book with the most captivating plot. This is not the case
with Emma. Her words are difficult to understand, her eyes show only demand and love, and Norman
has never seen a book harder to read, a philosophical treatise of an unknown culture in an unknown
language that deceptively uses the alphabet familiar to him. However, when she opens her mouth
again, the Prince already knows that he is not going to like what comes next.

"I wonder why you've become so attached to him." Emma hums as if to the emptiness of her
chambers. "I hear you're not the friendliest person in the Province. So why?..."

She looks at him in a very peculiar way, not by any means waiting for a reply, but analyzing the quick
dart of his eyes towards the door, straight, tense posture; another question is hidden in her words, one
Norman cannot decipher, and he thinks that girls are really scary. Perceptive.

"Because he is the only one who cares." Norman answers, sacrificing this bit of his soul to avoid
exposing something even worse.

It works.

"Norman." She says blankly and directs his attention towards her penetrating green eyes again. "Have
you ever had any friends besides Ray?"

Her talks about friends and family tire Norman, yet his expression is carefully neutral, musing
whether he should start the lecture that no one has ever come close to his status back at home to truly
be his friend. He has never even had a whipping boy—Father thought this method plants seeds of
empathy, a rudiment, a pigtail for all current and future Kings.

Maybe he should just admit the obvious.

"No... Not in the way you ask me."

"Can I be your friend?"

Can she? How would that benefit Norman, exactly?

Ray's adoring smile flashes before Norman's eyes.

Would that make his little Prince happy?

The Northern heir sighs deeply, catching foolish sentimentality in his fist. He tries to squeeze it like a
bug and extends his palm with a dead insect towards Emma.

Her handshake is as strong as ever, and yet it is different. It's... nice. Trusting. Naive, she smiles at
him like he has given her a star from the skies. Sweet, she squeezes his palm warmly, sealing their
deal with another hand on top, encompassing him, reviving and curing a small creature inside. A
mood magician, she paints the world around them a shade of warm springs, sea breeze, and sizzling
colourful fireworks.

When Emma lets his hand go, he almost expects that a butterfly would fly away from their contact. A
bug he crushed. Something tangible and alive again. Nothing comes out, naturally, yet Norman cannot
quite hide disappointment as the curves of his lips move slightly down and his eyebrows furrow
unconsciously.

"That is all I wanted to talk to you about. Thank you for indulging me." Emma says, and her smile
stays gentle, perfectly amicable, hiding her understanding.

"It's not like you've given me much choice."

"Would you like a cup of tea before sleep?" Emma giggles suddenly, purposefully, teasingly ignoring
Norman's jab.

It would be nice... to stay for a bit. He doesn't exactly want to leave.

Ray is probably already sleeping. That means Norman would have to come back to his assigned
room... He'll sleep alone again.

As it should be.

"No. I appreciate the offer, however."

As he stands up and walks to the door, the gems and the angels of her extravagant room blink at him,
inquisitive, lonely, silent, squinting. Watching.

"Before you leave..." Emma says, and her voice is changed. It is silver chains thrown on the Northern
Prince; he halts before the closed door, frozen.

The tense air holds him by the neck, in place.

"Do you know what happened to Barbara? Be honest with me."

Silence.

"I don't know."

He doesn't dare turn back around to evaluate her reaction, afraid that she might rip off an answer more
substantial.

"I see."

And just like that, the weight of the chains is gone like it was an illusion, a play of petrified
imagination, and her voice is gentle when she says,

"Good night, Norman."

Norman hears her light footsteps clicking on the floor further into the room, hiding behind another
door, a bathroom, a privilege even Ray doesn't have.

...It is really not fair how Isabella picks favourites.

Norman sighs and opens the door.

Bam!

A strange pained hiss comes from the other side.

"Sorry, Palvus," Norman mutters in the general direction of a sound.

Everything is mute when Palvus peeks out of the door cornice, holding a hat on the small head, one
eye blank and disturbing.

Who has just made this sound then?...

A second. That is all it takes for Norman to shut the door and leap on the intruder, pressing them to
the wall, blocking the airway with an upper arm, strong, reckless, sure.

"What did I do?!" An uninvited guest manages to ghost into Norman's skin.

Familiar. Norman blinks once, and all of his sharpened senses start working again, not anymore
blinded by danger.

The smell, the touch, the breath, the eyes... Ray.

Norman lets him go immediately, takes two measured steps back. Stupid.

"What were you doing here?" Norman asks and throws a quick glance at the one-eyed monkey. Why
didn't it chase Ray away?...

"I was just waiting for you." Ray grumbles, irritated, massaging the neck and adjusting his rumpled
clothes.

"No, Ray, you were eavesdropping."

"No, Norman." Ray almost hisses, strangely stern and slow. "I was waiting for you."

Waiting?... What fo-

O-oh.
If Father saw Norman these days, he wouldn't have recognized him. Shy and craving for his warmth,
Norman steps near again, takes Ray's hand in his own, and whispers weakly,

"I'm sorry. Lead the way."

Norman hazily remembers the last time he spent the night in his own appointed room. He knows the
way to Ray's chambers by heart, yet feeling cared for isn't so bad...

The guards, quite used to Princes' sleepovers, don't give them accusing stares as the boys enter
familiar soft brown chambers. The sheets of Ray's bed, the smell of books, and his embrace before
comforting darkness erase jealousy, useless frustration, and all emotions meant to rot from within.

Ray whispers 'sweet dreams', still a little bit offended, and clicks Norman's forehead, chiding. Not
quite satisfied, he does this again, and Norman reaches out to take him by the wrist, careful and
restricting, safe from further revenge. Ray laughs at that, quiet, warm, and it is enough for Norman's
head to spin in sheer relief.

He is home.

The next day they meet with Emma and her ever-present smile, and at first, the silver chains tighten
around Norman's neck as if in reflex. Yet she looks at him, all friendly smiles and fond eyes. Not at all
like Mother... Maybe he really imagined it.

For the first time, Norman tries to lower his guard for her, allowing her light to seep into his skin.

...It is warm with her, too.

She drags them to the kitchens, and he watches Ray make pancakes, a choice made by Emma's picky
demand. Then, they guide Norman step by step, one loud and encouraging, the other quiet and
attentive, carefully touching and redirecting Norman's hands from salt to sugar, from vinegar to butter
oils, holding and showing how to crack eggs with a knife. Norman has always thought cooking is an
activity for servants, yet now he wishes he was born a commoner if it meant Ray guided him in life
like that.

(Norman doesn't even complain when Emma eats both of their pancakes, her cheeks full, a happy,
bubbly squirrel, and he catches himself laughing along with Ray. It is a nice harmony of sounds...)

Emma leads them to the stables, notices Norman's wariness, and with gentle, rough hands leads him
to the meekest, most beautiful black pony he has ever seen. A small horse whines when it sees the
Northern Prince yet instantly calms down when Emma strokes its mane with a brush. While the
Princess whispers instructions on how to do the same, Norman glances at Ray engrossed in his
drawings on the corners of book pages.

The pony neighs warily when Norman touches its hair. He follows Emma obediently, fascinated that
the animal is not as scared anymore. Still, a fleeting thought overtakes his mind that he would have
much preferred to sit by Ray's side, watch him draw (even drawings of Emma would do), and stroke
his hair, softer and sleeker than ice, darker than the sky in the North.

They also play chess, and Emma watches, picking favourites, teasingly rooting for Ray. Norman goes
with the King, and Ray...

"Why would you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Well, first of all, sacrifice all of your pieces except for the pawns?"

Ray laughs quietly and puts one of his pawns to the edge of the board.

"Check."

"This is ridiculous. You can't just throw away your more significant pieces and prioritize cannon
fodder." Norman frowns, slightly put off that he let Ray's pawn this close to the white King.

"Forgive me." Ray smiles, his tone is apologetic, but his eyes and smile are strangely intent and
boasting. "It seems I'm a bad player for you."

"Don't say that, Ray!" Emma says sternly, engrossed in a game, and pulls at Ray's ear a little, making
him squeak in embarrassment. "You've surrounded him with pawns, that's so avant-garde!"

Norman clicks his tongue and gets rid of the promoted black pawn, taking significantly longer to
make a move on Ray.

"That's alright. I still have more." Ray smiles, clearly enjoying himself, Emma's praise, Norman's
company. "What else am I doing wrong?"

"Marrying your second cousin." Norman snaps, out of nowhere, freezing the room's atmosphere,
unannounced, harsh, muting Ray's quiet joy. "Yes, I'm aware that Her Majesty Isabella is a cousin to
your Mother Empress, Emma."

Ray's brows tighten, and the Prince coughs, not able to withstand sudden, unfair accusations in a
matter he had no choice but to accept. He retreats his pawn that could have checked Norman's King.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

Because it certainly bothers Norman.

"Isn't it..." Emma squints her eyes, trying to ascertain what exactly worries Norman about this
arrangement. Jealousy? They've talked about this. Blood ties? Emma liking girls? The lack of
consent? "Common? It is okay to be involved in a political marriage." Norman tenses at a phrase.
"...Even if the people involved are kin. It is for the best of both countries."

It is silent for a while as Emma bores holes in Norman's skull and Ray crawls into his safe space,
covering his face with hair. An easy, fun game of chess dissipates, and Norman enters a game of
society, crude, and sensitive. He has to play by the rules if he wants Ray to look at him again.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." Norman sighs and moves his King closer to one of Ray's few
pawns. It alerts the little Prince immediately as he scans the board for any traps with a discerning eye.
Clearly not an amateur. Norman softens, discovering yet another star in the sky of his Prince. He
wants to see it full of constellations. Someday. "It's just... I'm not used to this. This manner of transfer
of power through marriage. In the Northern Province, the current King is tested through combat every
few years. Anyone can challenge him and gain the crown, and blood ties don't matter at all.
Everything else seems a little... unfair? Savage? To me."

There's something else on his mind, a strange suspicion he does not dare to voice immediately; he
knows fully well: even the wisest and smartest King, even his Father, cannot rule two kingdoms at
once. He wonders why Isabella would make such a decision... To give away her only son, the only
successor to the throne.

Except for her.

Norman suppresses disgust in an all too familiar gesture, almost drawing blood with his teeth, already
opens his mouth to warn yet notices a strange glint in Ray's eyes, laughing in anticipation of
something amusing.

The spectacle comes crushing in the form of harshly brash Emma, eyes green and red, voice low and
mocking.

"Blood ties don't matter? Are you telling me that you, a Prince, that you don't get far more chances at
getting stronger and smarter?" She points her finger at him, nerve struck. "You will ultimately defeat
your Father. But would you be so wise and powerful if you were just a farm boy? If you had no
teachers and no goal but to survive?"

With a few pointed questions, she unravels the wreath of a beautiful valiant fairytale that Norman has
worn since the day he was born.

"Isn't it..." Norman starts and wants to hit himself for mirroring Emma. "Common? Obviously, the
Princes win. But every once in a while even a farm boy can defeat a King. And if this one farm boy
manages to defeat Me, raised in exceptional conditions, then I will bow my head to him."

Like how he bowed before Emma.

Ray smiles, silent, and Norman wonders if his Prince is thinking the same thing. He takes a black
pawn closest to the white King between his fingers...

"I must admit, I tire of you talking about farm boys and you being all that exceptional." Emma
interrupts the flow, very irritated and prickly. "Where are your brave women, brave knights?"

Norman doesn't want to miss the Moment of his own defeat, so he brushes her off,

"Women's only purpose is to..."

"Checkmate." Ray thunders, claps once, strategically interrupts whatever Norman wanted to say, and
pushes the white King with his black pawn. "I think you went easy on me."

There is a question unasked in his eyes: why?

"Congratulations, Ray!" Emma beams at him, eyes a gentle embrace, a pile of green leaves, and then
she turns to Norman, and leaves turn to rose's thorns. A threat. "What did you want to say, Norman?"

The things he does for love...

And so, the days fly by, the grand tree loses its vestments, the creeping cold brings warm plaids and
blankets, and Ray reads a book in the garden, under this naked tree, under these plaids too big for one
person, and Emma's laughter and Norman's quiet running steps fill his ears. Fiercely competitive, the
Princess tries to catch the Northern Prince in a game of tag. To no avail.

Ray hears them bicker, a buzz of silly words, running around the tree. It stops all of a sudden when
Norman slumps near Ray, instantly covered with blankets by Ray's hands as if only waiting for him,
and Emma snatches the book in a moment of distraction.

"Come on, run with us!" She says, childish and giggly, but returns the small treasure immediately
when she sees Ray's unimpressed stare. "Sorry."

Emma doesn't sound sorry as she shows her teeth and runs around the tree all alone, a bundle of
unrestrained energy. The corners of Ray's eyes are affectionate crinkles and blinking stars when he
follows her figure with a glance; Norman presses closer to him, purposefully distracting, interlaces
their fingers under the blankets, and puts his head on Ray's shoulder, seemingly to read the book
better. His little Prince's form shakes a little in silent, fond laughter, and Norman nuzzles into Ray to
erase or at least hide the loving pink forming on his skin.

Safe. Warm... Emma's rushing, rhythmic footsteps as she races, the crunching of dead leaves under
her feet, the methodical turning of pages, the steady, almost imperceptible rise and fall of Ray's
shoulder, it is a song that lulls Norman to sleep...

He darts in and out of reality, and the words in a book register, in a haze, merging with the calm
dreams about warm clouds and tall, like giraffes, orange trees.

How lovely it would be for this moment to last forever...

The rustle of pages stops; Ray raises his head to look at the sky, grey and black, attention piqued,
something more fascinating than a book. Norman blinks sleepily and follows the line of his little
Prince's sight.

The first snowflake falls on Ray's nose under the grand tree, and Norman changes.

His skin is a tone of grey ashes, his pupils are blown wide, shaking, absolute terror flashing in his
gaze. It is gone like it's never been there, and, hopefully, his friends do not notice this moment of
slipped weakness.

A week before Ray's twelfth birthday, the news comes that the Northern Prince is to return to the
Province at once.

Norman doesn't sleep that night, doesn't go out, doesn't ever exit his own room, doesn't allow himself
to care for Ray and Emma banging at his door relentlessly.

The snow reminds him of a hostile home, of a time limit he was given, of Father's unavoidable wrath,
of losing Ray forever. He wishes he could never see snow again.

A day after this, at five in the morning, Norman slips out of his chambers, a cold, confident mask
glued to his face, and only heavy bags under his eyes and a step slower than usual betray his
exhaustion. He'll sleep in the carriage...

If His Majesty the Royal Advisor Leuvis allows him, that is.

Norman shakes the feeling of weeping nostalgia from his shoulders, walks straighter as he passes the
library, the kitchens, Ray's room... He stops abruptly, memories of warm sleepovers washing over
him, unsuppressed, gentle but powerful waves of melted ice. Should he say goodbye?

He sighs and moves on, forward, musing that it has been a mistake to get to know his little Prince in
the first place. If they didn't become friends, maybe... Maybe all of this would have been easier to
bear. Maybe Father was right. Norman tries to erase Ray's features from his mind, visualizing,
repeating the same words "It is for the best, you're saving him like this, you were never even meant to
be friends".

When Norman enters a grand hall, expecting to see Leuvis and his out-of-place hat, he meets the
person he so desperately has wanted to run away from.

Ray stands there, waiting, his stare unexpectedly harsh, stubborn, accusing.

"I can't believe you've decided to run away without even saying goodbye." He shouts across the hall,
coming closer, and Norman's mood brightens, hearing a speech rehearsed beforehand. As sweet as
ever. "Are you trying to cut ties? I will not be able to exchange letters with you since, you know, your
Province is so damn secretive! You'll be dead to me, Norman! What were you thinking?!"

That you'll move on and forget.

That this was a mistake.

He doesn't say anything. Ray's stare presses on him from a distance, heavier than Mother's eyes under
a mask, painful like a rockslide of burning charcoal, worried, loving in a way only Ray can look.

Norman closes his eyes, drowsy, tired, considering he should just run to the door. A sudden spark
ignites inside of him; will Ray be able to catch him? Will he even try? Who will be on top? What if
Ray succeeds?

...Will Norman stay then?

"Here." The little Prince says, suddenly very close to Norman (this will not be a fun game of catch,
then. A shame). "A goodbye gift."

Norman opens his eyes to see Ray holding a very familiar book in his outstretched hands. The one
about the demons and three kids their age that Ray loved to re-read for some reason.

The Northern Prince takes the book hesitantly, and his fingers brush the comforting warmth of Ray's
skin, reminding him of a home Norman will never have.

"Thank you."

"No 'thank yous' before you open it! Right now, if you could." Ray's eyes are strangely shy when he
says it in a strangely forceful tone of voice.

Norman compiles, hesitant, his heart thunders out of control, expectant, weird.

"It's..." Norman says, hoarse, turning page after page after page. "Filled with your sketches of me."

Of him, sitting by the window in Ray's room, napping on Ray's lap, trying to cook in the royal
kitchens, playing chess, caring for tense horses, staring straight, holding a sword, reading books... On
every page a new pose, a new expression, a new smile. Sometimes it is just his eyes, just his lips, just
his fingers; "wasn't your fault" and "I will stay alive for you" are written in cursive under some
sketches.

Solemn, loving, jealous, musing, changing, but somehow, constantly, ethereally beautiful. So detailed,
so blindingly happy, it is him, a mosaic, a prayer, a Scripture.

Is that how Ray sees him?

"But of course," Ray says, overly joyful and a bit too loud, all in order to hide the nervous crack of his
voice. "It's a memento. I wouldn't like it if you forgot me."

Norman wants to say that no one has ever loved him like this; no one has seen him the way Ray does,
and Norman's vision clouds in mist, he doesn't utter a word, presses his lips into a thin, trembling line.

"Hey," Ray says, all cheerfulness gone, giving way to endless, instant regret. "I'm sorry! That was
tasteless, I shouldn't have..."

He doesn't finish the phrase. Norman hugs him, a torrent, a blizzard crushing on Ray out of nowhere,
white locks tickle his skin, and pale lips colder than snow kiss his cheek. They paint it dirty red, hot,
dizzy, they linger and press harder, they are a knife trying to leave a burning scar.

When Norman parts, his breath is still on Ray's cheeks, and the little Prince cannot possibly see a
similar shade of red on his friend's skin behind his dark bangs.

"And this is something to remember me by."

Crazed, confused, Ray misses the sudden loss of an embrace, misses Norman who darts out of the
castle to his future companion; the little Prince turns back to see a fading figure of his best friend
whom he will probably never see again.

Norman disappears, never turning back again. Ray doesn't give chase. No one wins.

He stares at the doors smacking behind Norman. He cannot turn his eyes away as his cheek grows
cold, colder; a small kiss is a poisonous snowflake that freezes him, his lips, his throat, his lungs, his
limbs.

Cold... It is so cold. It creeps to entangle his heart in white and blue vines.

A warm hand settles on Ray's shoulder. Controlled heat, grounding, a cup of hot chocolate in
frostbitten palms, a prickly blanket.

He didn't even hear her come in...

"I'm sorry," Emma whispers, and her words melt the ice, the loneliness, the emptiness that Norman
left behind. "I'm so sorry this had to happen, my heart."

Her affectionate, awkward nickname from silly romance novels contrasts drastically with the gentle
force with which she squeezes his hand.

"How could he leave you like that?" Ray tries to sound nonchalant, easily dodging a sensitive topic to
something safe. He means 'your Father', but truly... It is hard to tell.

A familiar monkey jumps on Emma's shoulder, inclines its head, stares at Ray, and the complete lack
of emotions in its one eye makes the Prince pretend like it never existed.

"Right. Palvus."

Emma giggles softly when she sees Ray wrinkle his nose in slight disgust. An emotion. Good.

She doesn't dare tell Ray that they might never see their new friend again. He'll either die at the Royal
Duels or become the King of North who sets foot out of the Province for exceptional events. It is
 better to have hope, a fragrance of love that completely encompassed a couple of Ray's childhood
months. Yet Emma also isn't sure what would happen if the hole in Ray's heart stays there forever.

She does everything to patch the quiet, the tastelessness of food, the lack of colours, to patch his
heart. She begs Isabella to allow them to ride horses for a bit (everything in the castle reminds Ray of
Norman), and the Queen, enamoured with her future daughter, brings them herself to her best mares.

White. Like northern snow. Or Norman's hair.

Ray doesn't start crying. Mother cannot stand the weakness of men.

He doesn't do anything, not ever. When Emma turns his back on him, he doesn't draw, doesn't laugh,
doesn't eat. Empty.

The Princess is nothing if not intelligent; one day she sneaks into the town with Isabella's permission
and her guards and brings Ray a girlish notebook filled with blank white pages.

"He can live on." She whispers and blows on the blue butterflies on the cover as if hoping that they
would fly away. "If you draw him. If you... let him go like this."

Emma is compassionate, kind, and Ray understands her in her entirety. His sister, his best friend, the
only person left with him who loves him, he doesn't miss the sorrow in her gaze when she looks at the
scattered memories of Norman in the castle.

Ray knows that Norman is gone for him, too.

And he still draws his Northern Prince from memory on every page of a new notebook. A bewitching
dream, an illusion, the Norman in the pictures grows along with Ray, a mirage of love, an ode to
absolute human beauty.

A gift if he sees Norman again.

...When he sees Norman again.

Chapter End Notes

A letter blown away by the northern wind

Ray,

The road to home is unusually bumpy. This is one of the lacking qualities of your people: they
are lenient, easy, unfocused, and even a royal member in their carriage is nothing but another
passenger to them. They say people's mentality reflects that of their Kings.

This bumpy road makes it hard for me to think straight. You do, Ray. I was with you for a long
period of six months, and it hasn't ever been enough. I've never learned enough about you, never
read enough with you, never hugged you enough.
This is a sticky little feeling to understand I could have done more and better. I'd rather not
torture myself, however. I'd prefer instead to lock my memories with you in a chest and throw it
in the volcano so that it is never found and will forever be my own. So that it doesn't distract me
any longer.

I will forever treasure you, Ray.

I hope we will never see each other again.

 Once upon a ball
Chapter Notes

A monthly reminder to check out the playlist: Spotify or VK. (There's a new song I find perfect
for this work as a whole (it's like a title song, honestly), it's in Russian, but it's enjoyable on its
own.) A piano composition by Helz.

Alright, this chapter turned out to be much more sentimental and lengthy than I expected, and
there's not much happening plot-wise. I do hope you will enjoy it nevertheless. (I also want to
tell you a secret: this is my favourite chapter out of every single one I've written for this work.)

My friend wrote a piece of poetry inspired by this chapter, and I will use its Russian original as
an epigraph. As a "reward" for finishing the chapter, at the end you can read our joined efforts to
translate it :D (or you can cheat the system and translate it yourselves, though I imagine that
would not feel quite the same).

P. S. This chapter now has an illustration as well! By my_ce_li_um.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Я добровольный пленник твоих глаз

Твоих одежд узорами расшитых

Твоей усмешки, так знакомо ядовитой

Гордыни выставленной напоказ

Я добровольный пленник твоей лжи

Твоих интриг накинувших удавку

На горло мне так крепко.

Но так сладко

Вместо воды в пустыне выбрать миражи.

Helz

A light blow on the window. The appearing mist from the young man's breath covering, hiding the
crowds gathering on the street. Long fingers drawing something flowery and elegant on the glass.
Quick lines, an art piece, a butterfly trying to fly with only one wing. Another blow, and it is gone by
a young man's wipe, revealing rich snowbound streets and expensively dressed guests exiting out of
their carriages, walking to the entrance of this place.

It is December in the palace of the Verhs Empire.

It is a celebrated day of Ray's official engagement. He will soon be seventeen... He will soon be the
King of this country.

He blows on the window again, rubs the tips of his fingers to warm them up, and draws anew.
Anxious. Dissatisfied. Ray sighs, tired, and leaves the window with an unfinished piece alone; he
paces the room, counting the steps between the walls, mumbling names and titles to himself.

A knock on the door stops him, and he is a fox standing on his tiptoes, fur raised in an alert.

The door opens without a sound, and a tiny young lady with dark hair, tinged green, and huge glasses
enters, shy, yet strangely determined. Her short coiffed hair bops along with her practiced step, her
heels clicking a specific, almost melodic rhythm.

"Ray." A lady says and curtsies shortly, a little bit formal, muscles tense. "My apologies if I have
interrupted. Most guests have arrived. Her Highness is calling for you."

Ray sighs inwardly, upset that Gilda still treats him like a superior, not a friend. In an effort to breach
this wall, he asked her to call him by his name at least. It seems it wasn't enough.

"Of course," Ray says and smiles, reassuring, drawing near her but immediately stopping when he
sees her shoulders tense and raise to her ears. He understands her boundaries. "Lead the way."

She lowers her head down, evading Ray's gaze, and trails to the door, her step so elegant that her
transparent green cape on her shoulders waves along, matching her pace.

It has always been complicated with Gilda. Overly formal, strict, and quiet, she talks to the Prince
only on his initiative and exclusively when it relates to their shared interests: books and Emma. That
is why it shocks Ray when she stops abruptly before the closed doors leading to the ballroom, strange
hesitation in her eyes changes to nervousness and... Pity?

"We're expecting someone, Ray," Gilda whispers, and Ray barely hears her among the loud casual
talk and music. She turns to him and fiddles with the pleats of her verdant dress. "The ball cannot
begin before they arrive. I know it's hard for you to bear... I'm sorry."

"Oh, Gilda, it's fine. Thank you for warning me." Ray smiles warmly, understanding her efforts to
soothe him, and he smooths distaste from his features. It is not meant for her after all but for this very
important guest who will drag this social hell even more than necessary. To think, he wanted to deal
with this fast...

Gilda sighs and tentatively opens the doors.

The brimming light meets their pair, the booming laughter and a buzz of thousands of conversations
happening all at once, the twinkle of jewelry on ladies' necks and gentlemen's fingers glisten, blind
Ray, the dresses and the suits flaunt the colours of the world, and Ray feels severely underdressed in
his black blouse adorned with transparent black dahlias and complicated velvety patterns. It is a
celebration for Emma and him, yet he is the only one who has come dressed in black. A dirty puddle
that everyone will sidestep in this festival of life.
Before Ray decides to run away and get changed, millions of eyes fall on him, evaluating, judging,
hushing. Or so it seems before the grand lady grabs everyone's attention, dressed in lavish red silks,
the golden patterns on her bust and the scarlet transparent mantle outline her broad shoulders, her
perfect posture, and the way her lean arms bend at the waist, the tips of her fingers touching slightly, a
flawless curve. Mischievous sun puddles splash in her eyes, a secret side to her absolute manners,
when she comes closer to Ray and Gilda.

Emma throws the Prince an appreciative glance before embracing Gilda and kissing her on both
cheeks, a courtesy, a greeting. She lingers more on each cheek than it is appropriate, the first flaw
everyone forgives and adores. The hustle and bustle continues; everyone is used to the open affections
of their future Empress and her loyal lady-in-waiting.

Ray can see only the side of Gilda's face, yet it tells him everything. The way she flutters her eyes,
cheeks rosy, leans to Emma's touch, gently holds the tips of Princess' fingers, tries to stand a little bit
taller and straighter to match. Fire dances in her eyes, confidence awakened by Emma, hidden behind
thick glasses.

Ray smiles gently when their arms interlace, and he takes his place near Emma's other side, a brief
distance apart. He has rarely felt like a third wheel when three of them were together; more than
anything he has always been ridiculously, almost to tears happy that his sun, his best friend, has
finally discovered where her heart lies. Even if it took a piece of him to let her go.

The Princess leads their trio across the ballroom, introducing Ray to various ministers of varying
importance, duchesses, marquises, and earls, the names and titles Ray tried so hard to memorize align
with faces, slowly swimming and muddling. He is positively exhausted when they reach the safe
harbour, the place around a single massive throne at the other end of the ballroom.

A royal crowd awaits their group. A woman, an older version of Emma, with greyish red hair, skin
darker-toned, and tired elegance in her posture sits on the throne, eyes squinted in warm adoration
when she sees Emma. Ray bows before her, trying not to look at another black blotch in this ballroom,
standing at the Empress' side.

They look nothing alike, cousins, Their Majesties of two countries, finally, symbolically merging
together. Ray doesn't want to meet Isabella's eyes when he rises, and yet they bite his insides, dark,
chomping, analyzing, finding faults in the angle of his bow, in the crooked bangs, in the lack of a ring
on his finger. Ray tucks his fringe behind his ear, hides his arms behind the back, straightening his
shoulders... The curve of Isabella's brows doesn't change, still dissatisfied with something Ray cannot
fix.

"Ray." A hoarse, soft voice breaks their staring contest just before Ray crumbles under Isabella's gaze.
"I'm glad you've come."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He whispers, suddenly shy, hiding behind a bow even Isabella would
have found impeccable.

"Oh, please, rise, my child," the Empress says just as sweetly, almost stroking his head soothingly
with her voice. "And call me Maria, please. Or Mother. There's no need for formalities—you will very
soon be my son, too."

The youngest boy in the royal crowd circling the throne grins at the Prince, showing his teeth in a way
Emma used to do when she was his age, giving Ray thumbs up, saying only with his mouth,
"Brother!"
Ray's eyes glisten and fade, effectively shutting tears arising from this overwhelming acceptance. He
only ever felt this with...

...

"I appreciate everything you've done for me, Mother." Ray says, warm, breathy... Catching a change
in Isabella's expression, something cold, deformed, pale on her face. Troubled. Hurt.

Maria smiles, and a company of kids younger than Emma and looking like her stares at the Empress
as if waiting for her permission to run wild. She nods, and the only boy in the group squeaks, erupting
a chorus of laughter from the guests.

"Phil, sweetie, wait!" Emma only manages to exclaim before her brother throws himself onto Ray,
hugging his neck with arms and his torso with legs, unexpectedly strong and still so sweet.

Ray squeezes him in return, ruffles his hair, and Phil giggles. He turns his head around to show a
tongue to his sisters, and they smile, polite and dignified, mirroring Emma's energy, waiting for their
turn.

"Anna, Jemima." Ray calls them, and his heart flips around when he sees the painfully familiar blush
on Anna's cheeks, Jemima's smile lacking one front tooth. Sisters... Family.

"It is very nice to see you, Ray." Anna says, a little bit breathless, nervously, absent-mindedly stroking
her blond braids. Afraid to come near but for a different reason than Gilda.

"Phil!" Jemima complains, lisping a little bit, and pulls at Phil's fancy pants. "I want to hug Ray, too!"

"Wait for your turn!" Phil grumbles and hugs Ray even stronger. Jemima pouts at that, still trying to
look as elegant as her older sisters, but failing miserably, acting more like her brother.

Must be nice... to be so carefree. The Prince hugs his future brother closer—at least someone has a
childhood he could never afford.

Emma sighs and lets go of Gilda's hand, and instead happily, easily takes Jemima in her arms, coming
closer with her to Ray. A little girl chuckles cheerfully when all four of them hug, a massive pile of
arms and warmth.

Still... Someone is missing.

When Ray promises Phil and Jemima to teach them a little bit how to draw later ("just like you can,
Ray!"), they let him go and run away to the Empress' side, Anna gives him another lingering smile,
and Emma draws to Gilda again as if physically pained by the distance of three steps between them.

Ray walks closer to them, a question solely for them to hear,

"Are we waiting for Barbara?"

"No," the eldest Princess shakes her head, suddenly thoughtful and distant, staring at the doors on the
other side of the ballroom. "She said she couldn't come."

Emma pauses, furrows her brows, tense, suspicious.

"After the news that he will come has arrived." Gilda echoes after her Princess, hollow. A
foreboding.
Ray hasn't seen Barbara in eight years, but she is not the reason for this useless waiting.

Who is 'he'?

Ray doesn't have to wait long for an answer.

The sudden murmurs across the ballroom, guests rushing to the windows from ceiling to floor, words
'white horses' fill Ray's ears. Emma grabs his arm, letting go of Gilda, suddenly, severely protective,
eyes squinted when she pulls him slightly to the doors to greet this mysterious guest in person.

Ray's brows furrow when the meaning behind 'white horses', animals representing royal dignity,
catches up with him.

"Emma," he tries to sound nonchalant, speaking with a slightly open mouth, lips not moving. "Who is
coming?"

The Princess stops before the closed doors, a crowd already gathered around them, and says on an
exhale,

"Minerva."

Nausea overwhelms the Prince, a trigger, a knife to the stomach and the neck, twisting, again, and
Ray closes his mouth with a palm, horrified, sick.

Because Minerva is dead.

Ray doesn't manage to ask anything further when the grand doors open. A person comes in, and the
Prince's eyes bulge out, a palm falls from his mouth, a short intake of a breath, a gasp rolling over the
whole sharply silent ballroom.

At first, the way he moves reminds Ray of a swan—the sophistication in the gestures, a step so light
and quiet, he is a star ballet dancer born to be adored, so complete an embodiment of beauty, Ray
cannot look away, a willing captive. The world dies mercifully in the corners of his vision to frame
this absolute personification of pure swan's grace. It is hard to breathe... Ray's eyes run over this
stranger's figure and face, memorizing him with the avid eye of an artist who has found the meaning
of the word 'muse', of all the love poems that never made any sense before.

But when a swan halts, he is a white dry tree reluctant to move its naked branches by the wind's
power. Another art, in another form. A stranger puts one of his twigs on a waist, the other over his
heart, a shoulder bent slightly back, a curve of his spine a perfect line, a body meant to be drawn and
worshiped, and

H e s t a r e s R a y i n t h e e y e.

And what eyes this stranger has!...

Like blue stars in the sky, like a prophecy, a promise, a confession, an apology, a blue eternity, a blue
full moon, a blue... butterfly.

Ray... Ray remembers these eyes.

It is so hard to breathe... His head is spinning, throat dry, mouth open, hands shaking when this
agonizingly familiar young man smiles politely at him, not a hint of recognition, and it is a gift, a
curse from the Gods, and it snatches Ray's heart, trashes it, ruthless, more…

He doesn't answer the Prince's plea.

"Your Majesty," Emma's voice comes as if from a different dimension, a different time. Your
Majesty?... "I would like to thank you for gracing us with your presence. It is not often you leave the
vicinity of your Province, much less to attend a social gathering."

"Your Highness, but how could I not?" He says in a voice of the winds after the blizzard, calming,
unexpectedly soft, yet still so, so cold. "I couldn't possibly miss the union of two countries near my
border."

Ray catches every little change in his expression when he comes near the Princess and shakes her
hand, strong, sturdy, respectful. His eyes shift to look closer at a verdant ring on Emma's finger—a
proposal not from Ray but from Gilda (truly, nobody needs to know that). Ray cannot quite process
the meaning behind a triumphant glint in the Northern King's gaze before their eyes meet again.

Social protocols, etiquette, everything flies away from the Prince's head as he dumbly mirrors Emma's
gesture, holding his trembling palm for a handshake, physically unable to even exchange empty
pleasantries with this walking dream.

...Only for this dream to bow slightly before Ray, flipping over his outstretched hand, palm down,
lifting it, and kissing his bare ring finger. He doesn't break eye contact, looks up, doesn't even seem to
blink, checking for every mini reaction. He lingers, pressing dry lips, easily, secretly caressing
protruding veins on Ray's wrist, listening to the thunderous melody of his pulse.

This is it. This is what death feels like.

Ray begs only with his mouth,

"Norman…"

"Your Highness," Norman?... straightens, releasing Ray, and whispers, words meant only for their
ears. "You can't seem to take your eyes off me. Are you perchance enchanted?"

"Forgive me," the Prince murmurs in return, the effect ruined by the low hoarseness of his voice. "I
thought I knew you."

"Oh, that cannot be right," the Northern King gifts him a very strange, a very private smile, one Ray
doesn't understand before this enigma hits him. "Maybe once upon a dream?"

A dream…

"Yes. I suppose you are a dream come true."

A strange gasp comes from the Princess' side, directing everyone's attention to her and her heavily
blushing lady-in-waiting. Gilda clasps her mouth with both palms for a second, decides otherwise,
hides her hands behind her back, tries to say something, but no words come out. Ray suddenly
remembers what kind of romance stories she prefers, and the vivid red on his cheeks mirrors hers, no,
it is not like that!

A light cough from Emma saves the whole situation when she suggests, polite and dignified,
"Allow me to introduce you to the Empress, Your Majesty."

"It would be an honour."

The King bows before Her Highness, his movements so honed and graceful, Ray cannot suppress a
gulp, cannot stop looking at him, at all the little ways his clothes' wrinkles change when he bends, the
lighting of the candles plays with the colour, with white locks of his hair, bangs a thick, slightly curly
arc highlighting cheekbones, an open face; his eyes dart to glance at Ray, intentional, a second, a
small smile, just for him. A secret.

...Is it like that, after all?

The crowd around them disperses, mingling, curiosity sated, the shackles of its stares growing fainter,
unbinding. Emma smiles at Ray, understanding why the tension dissipates from his shoulders,
intertwining her arm with Gilda's like it is the most natural occurrence, like a long-awaited rain in dry
summer. The Princess beckons to him to take his righteous place near her side and yet…

"Your Highness." A familiar voice near Ray's ear nearly makes him jump, a shiver shooting his nerves
from the tiptoes to the neck. He didn't notice him coming nearer… "I would like to get acquainted
with you. Would you escort me while we talk?"

"Of course." Ray blurts out, not quite thinking about the consequences, enchanted with his eyes. He
leans forward, craves to be…

Their arms intertwine at the elbows, black and white velvet, an anomaly, a breach of the etiquette
rules, a crack in Ray's heart, in danger of splitting open, breathe!

Emma doesn't seem to mind, almost expecting such a turn of events, and leads their small procession
forward yet still a little bit further from Ray and his strange companion so as not to overhear their
conversation.

"My name is Minerva." The King starts with an easy topic, casual, and it still throws Ray off. "What's
yours, Your Highness?"

Minerva… It was her name. But he looks so much like Norman, from his appearance to his
mannerisms and a lingering desire for a touch. Is he pretending not to know Ray? Is it a different
person? Maybe a brother? Maybe a twin? Could be… Ray decides he'll stick with this explanation.

Has Norman ever had siblings, however?

What if he... forgot?

"Ray." The Prince answers but wants to throw something sarcastic instead, something that would help
him understand what is going on, something like, 'Wouldn't you know, Your Majesty?'

"Like a sun?"

Ray nods, embarrassed, warm, confused, it is not him, it is Emma who is…

"It suits you."

Ray shrugs, uncertain, evading the compliment,

"Wouldn't it be a pity if the sun was black?"

"If the sun was black, I would found a religion and devote it to you."

What?...

Okay, no way. Wow, no, too much, no, no.

Ray screams internally, he didn't just say it, he begs the skies that nobody heard this, this is the most
flattering and embarrassing line he has ever heard in his entire life, grows red from the hairline to the
collarbone like a person scalded, almost whines, he has no idea how to dodge this, breathe, Ray!

Shaking laughter, slightly wheezy and muffled, makes Minerva's whole body tremble, and their
interlinked arms are a wire for his electrifying giggly happiness. The sides of Ray's lips go up by
themselves when he looks at Minerva's squinted eyes, badly hiding the majestic blue, at his crooked
lips, the most natural state.

He reminds Ray so much of…

The thought hides away, waiting to be rediscovered again, for they finally near the throne of Her
Majesty. No one makes an effort to part from each other as if that is how it is supposed to be.

It is all polite pleasantries, welcomes, and thank yous with the Empress until Minerva notices Phil.
Ray feels it immediately: air charged, a stare of haunting blue eyes locking on a kid, almost
threatened and… scared (Ray isn't sure he is reading it right) when Phil meets his gaze. Huge,
childishly curious, blue eyes of a darker, deeper hue than Minerva's, remind Ray that they must be
related in some way.

Childishly?...

"What's wrong?" Ray asks, almost inaudible. "Afraid of a kid?"

It is a test Minerva fails: a shocked, cornered look enters his gaze when his head snaps to Ray, but it
fades away immediately like it has never been there.

Norman could lock his deeper feelings and troubles in a blink, too. (Even if Norman had really
wanted to hide it, Ray always, always noticed it.)

Unexpectedly, the winner of this test is Phil. Completely unfazed, he gives their pair a massive, toothy
smile.

Ray sighs inwardly still; this doesn't prove anything. Phil turned nine this summer, maybe it just
doesn't work at this age. Ray blinks slowly all of a sudden, submerges into his buried memories. A
recollection, a quick flash of the same blue, another block, another nothingness. Did he see… the
same eyes when he was

Nine?

How can this be?...

He came to know Norman when they were eleven. Either his mind is playing tricks on him. Or
something doesn't add up.

Ray darts in and out of the conversation between Her Majesty Maria, Emma, and Minerva, words
like, 'congratulations', 'fiance', 'unexpected visit', 'border passage', 'Holy Library' mess with his
thought process, with his attempts to remember; he isn't expected to participate as is His Royal
Advisor Leuvis, and it serves him: he almost grasps the memory, yes, this is it!

Until he hears the clicks of familiar heels coming towards him.

The talks are over; Maria stands from her throne to greet the guests in person, as if everyone was her
dear old friend, affectionately, curtly hugs Phil and Jemima on her way. The heels are not hers,
however. It is Isabella's.

Ray closes his eyes, breathes deeply, in and out, coming to terms with the sudden cold dread in his
bones. Of course, she is not coming towards him. She will introduce herself to the King, this has
nothing to do with him, there is nothing to fear, it is all in his head.

...It is all in his head, but when the clicks halt near the black and white pair, Ray cannot suppress a
violent shiver, brutal, freezing waves of goosebumps. He opens his eyes, bows his head, sufficiently
polite to please, sufficiently low to hide. A casual touch, more taps of fingers than anything else,
alerts Ray, wipes the narrow horror from his mind to concentrate only on this feeling: the barely
tangible brush of Minerva's fingers against the Prince's arm. An invisible gesture, I am here, hands
unbound from the rope, Ray's body relaxes, inch by inch, unused to the lack of restraints, and he
straightens again. He throws an apologetic glance towards the King: he must have pressed their arms
together painfully tight on instinct…

Minerva blinks as if not even acknowledging that something must have occurred with Ray, as if not
feeling the pain, as if it is not him who is still stroking Ray's arm with only his fingertips.

Right before Ray's Mother.

Yet Isabella doesn't look at their arms. Or pretends not to see, at the very least.

"Your Majesty." Isabella only greets him, a head bowed slightly, and doesn't find it necessary to
introduce herself as if she knows him. "My son. A word, please."

For a blink of a second, Ray's arm is pressed against Minerva's side, so close and tight that he can
hear the King's heartbeat, a situation reversed; the Prince's head spins, overwhelmed, but it is over, an
illusionary shield, sudden protectiveness, and nothing reflects on Minerva's face.

He doesn't immediately understand what Isabella asked of him, a bit too occupied with someone else.
Yet when she smiles, it is clear: he is doomed. Ray hazily remembers her smiles when he was a child
and his Father was still alive: honest, eyes closed, a quiet laugh, a smile that felt like a hug, a home. A
gift for the people she loved (and she loved so many!), a constant ray of life, support for the times
when everything seemed like it would fall apart.

Isabella doesn't smile anymore. This one is one of a kind: slightly twitchy at the edges of her lips,
muscles on her cheeks tightened, teeth clenched, eyes dry and open, one brow raised. A show of her
impatient, deep resentment.

That is all it takes for Ray to yank his arm out of Minerva's embrace. She turns around, her face now a
mask of a cold, acceptably bored vixen, and walks away to the only inconspicuous door right behind a
throne. The Queen doesn't look away, certain that now Ray will follow.

And Ray does. But not before bowing before Minerva, apologizing, promising that he will be back
soon, that they will continue their conversation. He has never felt this embarrassed: a reprimand from
his own Mother right before Him, of all people, of all times!
Minerva doesn't look at him, only nods, acknowledging, yet still boring holes into the door behind a
throne, something on his mind, an invisible concern. He throws a quick glance towards Emma and
brings it back to Ray,

"It's a promise then."

Ray tries to ignore a rapid jump of his heart to his neck—he'll deal with these feelings later.

Faltering steps, eyebrows furrowed, what did he do, Ray sidesteps a throne, gets closer to the door,
and stops before it. Maybe it is not too late to elope… with him. Just like old times. An inner joke, a
lingering hope, a warm memory, all of it blunts the angles of his anxiety before he has to face his
Mother.

He opens the door.

It is supposed to be a small haven for a royal family, to rest from the overwhelming social gatherings,
to discuss events in privacy, and scattered memoirs of everyone lie on soft sofas and sturdy tables.
Emma's knives that she throws to one of the walls whenever she is feeling restless, her and Ray's
violins stored safely on the other side of the room (oh, how Anna adores listening to their duo);
Gilda's piles of books and a variety of glasses of different forms; Anna's cosmetics along with
thousand pages volumes on the subject of the economics; Jemima's drawings, copying Ray's style;
Phil's army of uneasily detailed toy soldiers.

It all fades away, the soothing atmosphere, their lingering, warm presence, for Isabella stands there,
watching the streets, a back turned towards Ray. A black shadow, an ominous premonition, even her
voice comes as if from a place of tortured souls and tired to death torturers.

"Do have a seat. We will be here for a while."

"Thank you. I will be alright."

Isabella turns to him, and her dress swishes from the speed of her twist, a mirror of her grudge.

"Then let us not waste time being polite. Don't you love Emma?"

Ray's head starts hurting at the temples; he has never liked these manipulative mind games his Mother
has always been a master of. It is a trap, yet he falls for it nevertheless; the answer can be nothing
but,

"Of course, Mother."

"Then why are you allowing rumours to spread?" Her cold mask doesn't fall when she says this, but
Ray can still hear a crack in it as her voice obtains a slightly higher pitch. "Why are you showing
excessive affection to the Northern King and putting everything we've worked for at risk?"

She didn't look at their intertwined arms. But of course, she has noticed... She always notices his
every single fault.

"Mother, this is unfair of you," Ray says, trying to be brave for once, feeling that this is a matter more
important than the wrong angle of a bow. This is worth fighting her for. "Emma is open with her
affections to Gilda."

"Emma hides her preferences well enough in public," Isabella says, quick and heavy, not giving Ray a
chance to argue. He opens his mouth to contradict—she raises her voice. "A friendly kiss between
two beautiful girl friends is nothing unusual at court. You are not allowed this privilege."

"Why?... How am I different?" Ray mutters, and it sounds pathetic. He feels like he is losing. "Sister
Krone and you, you…"

Something changes in her gaze, ugly, scary, like all the monsters under the bed, like all the scary
shadows of the trees on the walls in the night (they whisper of madness), like the curse of the skies
and like scorching, black envy.

"Blame yourself for being born a man."

...No. No, don't cry. Mother cannot stand the weakness of men. He doesn't want to… disappoint her.

It is hollow, it is unfair. It is his fault, it is a splitting headache, it is a gruesome, limp exhaustion. Ray
closes his eyes and massages his temples—the headache blocks the major torrent of self-deprecating
thoughts, but it is still so bloody painful!...

She comes near, the clicks of heels hammering nails into Ray's skull, and a hand, gentler than he is
used to, rests on his shoulder. An apology, a pity. Ray isn't fooled: it is a knife that she will stab him
with, afraid that she will miss from a distance.

"My son." Isabella starts, her voice is a caring, motherly snare. "Why would he introduce himself with
this name? Hush." She stops his protest in advance when he opens his eyes, a fresh wound pressed on
with her finger. "Listen to me and do not utter a word: he has never loved you, and he never will."

Squinted eyes, disbelief, cracks in the reality, blinking, warping, until there is nothing, no surface to
stand on, no blue, no… No.

A slap to her hand.

"No."

She takes her arm and massages her hurt spot, and not even a muscle twitches on her face. No
emotion, not even a reflection of a manipulative play, there is absolutely nothing on her face, and the
silence, utter void screams at Ray like milliards of banshees when she mutters under her breath,

"You are a disappointment."

A huge part of Ray implores him to beg for her forgiveness. To kneel before her, kiss her slapped
hand, admit that he is rotten, that he has always been, apologize that he is hurting her again and again.
Promise that this will never happen. Cry that she has always been right.

And Ray doesn't kneel. Doesn't apologize. He stands there, taller than her, slightly shaking, blind
defiance tying his bones and muscles into one string.

He tries to say something, to protect himself, to assure her that she is wrong about Minerva, about
him, that she doesn't understand; nothing comes out of his mouth but a heavy, rustling, trembling

"No."

Ray doesn't expect her following, easy, detached like she is talking about the weather, words,

"Fine. I won't say I told you so. But do not come crying to me when your 'love'," Isabella stresses the
word, the first emotion, mockery, entering her voice, "will inevitably destroy you."
'Like it destroyed you?' he wants to spit at her face.

"I won't. Mother."

Seemingly satisfied for the first time in a whole evening, she walks away, and the hemline of her
black dress leaves ashes on the floor, bitter, dirty.

Ray is these ashes under her heels.

Silence.

Two. Three.

Seconds? Hours? Days?

Years?

Pass in the silence of this royal haven. The Prince's personal hell.

Breathe, Ray.

He moves his fingers, one by one, slow, not feeling them, as if they were frostbitten. He takes one of
Emma's throwing knives. Squeezes the handle, nails biting into his skin.

He throws it to the wall with his whole body.

Another.

Pure, blind, red, hissing rage, one he has never felt before, pushes him to throw more, more, until he
feels his fingers again, until the clatter of knives on the floor, dull thuds of some entering the walls fill
his ears until there is no more left, and he still throws, throws, addicted to the movement.

Until he cannot stand, breathless, sits on a sofa, a headache so painful and loud, he covers the whole
head with his arms, crawls into a fetal position, and lets severe shudders wash over him, giving up.

Until a sudden, indifferent thought enters and whispers as if expecting a moment of calm to arrive:

That is not like him at all.

The head still hurts, but it is not enough to block the horrifying, flooding his mind 'what ifs':

Is Mother right?

Is he… wrong?

Is it all wrong?

If that is a dream, Ray would have liked to wake up right about now.

He stands and smooths his hair, tucks his bangs behind the ear, massages his eyelids, movements still
slow, dragged, eyes misty.
Of course. That is not like him at all.

He exits out of this strangling hell. Not even Isabella would have noticed that something happened to
him.

...Yet his composed state shatters, millions of pieces of exploded sun, when the first person he hears is
Him. It is coming from somewhere behind the throne, words indiscernible.

A fit of noiseless giggles nearly overwhelms the Prince. How ironic.

He comes to the place behind the massive, empty throne, and it is easier to... be for once. A voice that
breathes life into Ray, soothes with its mere existence whispers,

"...think of my proposal, your Grace?"

Doubtful, brows furrowed, afraid to face him again, afraid to feel something undesirable, improper...
wrong? Ray still peeks out, too curious, and sees Minerva talking to Emma, their expressions
complicated, stern, formal. The Princess darts quick glances at Gilda, and Ray hastily analyzes the
way the Duchess' shoulders almost touch her ears, her eyes squint as if in pain, her posture crooks,
and a little tremble covers her whole figure.

No... He is not talking to Emma. He is talking to Gilda.

"This is a kind offer, Your Majesty." Gilda bows before Minerva, and her voice doesn't betray her
tremendous anxiety. She sounds as polite and smooth as ever. "But I'd have to decline. If I were to be
your companion in life, I'd have to live in the Province and abandon my Princess, possibly forever. I
swore fealty to her, and I will stay unmarried for as long as I serve her." She looks quickly at Emma
as if seeking comfort in her green eyes. Emma's hand rests gently on Gilda's shoulder, and they lower,
lower until the Duchess doesn't seem as horrified anymore. "My apologies, Your Majesty."

Her words register in Ray's mind like scattered pieces of a puzzle: they don't make sense, don't click.
Companion in life? Marriage? Offer-

...

No.

Ray cannot suppress an almost hysterical laugh; this dream adores torturing him.

He has never loved you, and he never will.

He is trying to read Minerva, staring, trying to understand his intentions, and finding nothing but cold
indifference in the slow blinks of his eyes. Yet an inconsistency occurs when Ray laughs: the King
closes his eyes for a long period of three seconds, tilts his head as if trying to hear something better,
and opens them again. The black pupils almost vanish, an uncanny blue stare redirected to peer
straight at Ray, a calculated strike, a knife thrown right to the Prince's eye-

Ray ducks behind a throne immediately, evades the throw, he saw! The Prince shivers from the
sudden cold dread in his stomach, inhales sharply; he covers his mouth and nose with a palm, and
rapid, deafeningly loud explosions in his chest are a reminder that the Northern King has never seen
much—he hears. An embarrassing blush creeps to Ray's ears, cheeks, neck; is Minerva listening to
the panicked whimpers of Ray's heart?

Calm down.
This is ridiculous.

Soft giggles, rapturous snippets of conversations about Her Highness' beauty, gossip, trade secrets,
and casual flirting in hushed whispers, clicks of hundreds of heels, loud, all at once. There is no
way… he could hear Ray. No way he should care for the excited, hurt drums, an insignificant note in
the whole composition.

Right?

The absurdity of Ray hiding behind a throne, eavesdropping on a private conversation, and staying
hidden for the thrill of the stupid chase, it all falls like a horrendously constructed house on the
Prince's head, embarrassing, red, shameful. What a disgrace.

Ray shakes his head, endlessly irritated with himself, and walks away from behind the throne to the
only person alive and warm in this place. She is not hard to notice even in the explosion of colours—
his red bundle of fire, his Emma, she stands out like a conductor, tall and proud, controlling the flow
of the crowd with the mere gestures of her hands, serene and so beautiful Ray forgets for a second
about Isabella, Minerva, and his conflicting, gnashing feelings.

It is just a second, however. The Prince's gaze doesn't stop looking for a white figure in the ballroom.
In vain.

He comes near Emma, and she, always surrounded by people, notices him from a distance
nonetheless, halts all conversations, and turns to him, now completely alone. No Gilda. No Minerva.

"Ray!" She exclaims, tranquil happiness behind her eyes and quiet, invisible to the unknowing eye
anxiousness in the way she walks to him. "I've been waiting for you. It is time to start our dance. The
guests are restless."

"Alright, no worries, but I wanted to ask…"

"He left just a minute ago. Seemed to be in a hurry."

So Minerva didn't catch him eavesdropping. This is good.

...Why is Ray disappointed?

"Wait, how did you…"

"I did not." Emma sighs and intertwines their arms, leading the Prince to the center of the ballroom.
Everyone disperses before them, slightly bowing, obedient, in awe. "You just remind me of myself
when I… felt for the first time like I could spin the moon as if it was a spindle and make a duvet from
the glitter of the stars if it meant Gilda smiled more for me."

She smiles, quiet, a teasing question left unasked on her lips, 'Sounds familiar?'

Ray wishes it didn't.

Their waltz is a fraction of a memory from a distant past. The guests' eyes blink at them like stars,
accepting, adoring, like it has always been, like they've always been perceived. A dream couple from
fairytales, hopelessly in love, a symbol of absolute devotion this world has never known.

If only these people realized that Emma's smile is a gift for her sweetheart in a crowd, and Ray is
looking for him, the white King, his dream, his tempter, his nightmare.
"What's wrong?" Emma whispers suddenly while she spins, the same smile still stuck on her face.
"You're paler than usual. Are you alright?"

Ray is certain he can hide his thoughts and feelings like any distinguished person raised by the court,
but she has always seen the heart of his as if it was a treasure on display for her eyes only. Maybe that
is why he fell in love with her many, many years ago.

Maybe that is why he can trust her so easily, so unconditionally.

"No. I'm not alright."

The words flow easily, almost in a joking manner, as if this whole day didn't beat Ray senseless. He
doesn't talk about Isabella, however, and Emma doesn't ask. Instead, he apologizes that he happened
to overhear Minerva's proposal to Gilda. Polite, distant, aware that his lips could be read, he muses
that it must have been hard for Emma to face this possibility.

She loves her lady-in-waiting so much, after all.

The Princess understands the implications of this conversation immediately. She reassures, warm,
with an intentional doe-eyed look on her face, a spectacle for the possible viewers,

"I felt like he didn't really want to propose. Like it was something he had to do, one of the reasons he
arrived in the first place. And Gilda doesn't seem to be his type for that matter. Sure, she's graceful, an
heiress to a duchy, well-mannered, intelligent, reliable, beautiful, kind, sweet, nice." Emma stutters,
blinks rapidly, a blush adorning her features, and she coughs, returning to the topic of Minerva at
hand. "I wager, however, he is looking for different qualities in his partners."

"Oh, stop this. You cannot possibly know that. You are just trying to comfort me."

"Oh, Ray, that, too, of course, but have a little trust in me: I know." Emma winks at him, knowing
something he does not. "Do not take this situation to heart, I beg of you. It hurts me to see you in such
pain."

Emma is the only person who has ever seen Ray cry. He wishes he could talk to her freely, tell her
more, hug her, and the corners of his eyes and lips lower slightly, twitchy, a fleeting moment of
slipped desire to bawl his eyes out, a response to her words.

More pairs join their dance, and the ballroom fills with noise, the center of everyone's attention now is
just another couple enjoying their time together. Emma's gaze hardens, and she, hand still on Ray's
shoulder, takes the lead, dancing them away further from the gathering crowd to a quieter corner,
more private.

She halts their dance behind a pillar and a wall and looks around them, just in case, not to have any
overly passionate couples intrude into their conversation.

"Is something else bothering you?" Emma asks, her voice tinged with the same bittersweet tone of
absolute care and love but lacking pretense and saccharine sweetness she displayed in public. "Why
did Isabella call you to speak?"

Ray sighs, impossibly tired from this whole day; it would be easier, he thinks, however, if he just let it
out of his chest instead of letting it painfully, slowly chomp him to madness from inside out.

He tells her everything in a tone as if he were gossiping about a particularly funny scandal, a curious
case. To think, what a preposterous idea, a betrothed Prince is enchanted with a King! He smooths
Isabella's words into something gentler, more a motherly admonition than a threat. In the end, he
gives up, and an exhausted note enters his speech when he says,

"I think I'm just painfully jealous of you two. Gilda and you."

Ray doesn't mention that all of his problems would be simply an idea if he was born a woman. He
would have been allowed to be in love with Minerva (Norman? Oh, how Ray wishes he was
Norman). Emma would have loved him.

Mother would have loved him.

Emma's eyes crinkle, watery, deeply, uncomfortably understanding, but she gulps all of her reflected
misery down. Her voice is a murmur of rustling waters in a lush forest, calming, quiet, yet strangely
melancholic.

"Oh, my heart. You shouldn't, really. I'm sorry for speaking out of turn; I fear I just have to say this.
Gilda and I, for the nobility, for all the people dancing in this ballroom, for all the people across the
country, we will forever stay gentle girl friends. We could kiss each other on the lips, and it would
change nothing; our bond will forever be viewed as something trivial, unimportant, a play, a spicy
experiment unless we state it otherwise, loud and clear. But we cannot." Emma says and strokes her
wedding ring absent-mindedly, an unintentional action speaking louder than she possibly could. "At
least your feelings are taken seriously."

How stupid. Of course, he wouldn't think of her suffering when he came to her with his tragic little
story. Ray's face distorts, guilty, ashamed, an apology already formed on his lips, but she puts his
words into his own mouth,

"Forgive me. We all face different challenges in love, and I shouldn't undermine your struggles. In
thanks that you listened to my incessant complaints, I would say: you're forever free to love and be
loved if so is your heart desire." She smooths the non-existent wrinkles on the dark velvet on Ray's
chest, accentuating her next point; it is a perfectly sweet gesture on the outside, but Ray understands
its meaning. "You do not have to fit into the norm. Black is your colour—don't be ashamed of it. So
never fear. For we're all free when we dance."

Emma smiles at him one last time, a reassurance, a beam of warm light, a wink, and she turns away, a
whirligig, her poofy skirts hugging her legs, twirling along with her. She enters the dancing field,
spinning and spinning as if the floor was her ice rink as if Gilda was her moon, and the guests are
their waves, ebbing, flowing when the Princess and her beloved lady link their hands for a dance, so
free and easy like this is the only truth in the world.

Ray can tell himself all he wants that it is easy being around them. However, when the fiances' dance
ends, his duty accomplished, he wants nothing but to escape to the needless vastness of his room
where he would paint the very little details of his dream until he finally faints from exhaustion,
accompanied by the tremble of his fingers. He so desperately wants to leave...

...until someone blocks the way to his escape. Ray doesn't remember him dancing along with the
others. And yet he is here, in this private corner where nobody can see them, outstretching his hand,
long fingers pointing to Ray's heart, yearning for it (for him?), and he is staring, eyes inviting, half-
lidded, a challenge. Now the Prince wants only to turn into a sun and rest in them forever.

Isabella's face flashes before his eyes,

He has never loved you, and he never will.

Blast you, Mother.

Like it is the only truth in the world, Ray takes Minerva's hand.

It is awkward immediately. When Minerva pulls him into his space, unexpectedly gentle, raises their
joined hands high, Ray is a red stone, having been too long under the star's heat, and his cheeks are
burning, he has never danced with a man before, he is panicking, eyes running away from the almost
horrifying proximity of Minerva's blue eyes, and both of their hands lie on each other's waists, and-

"Shh." Minerva soothes him, quiet, a song of the northern howling winds, lightly stroking his hand.
Now it is in flames, too. "Let me."

Ray breathes again, exhales, stubbornly scrutinizing the King's shoes, and lifts his hand from
Minerva's waist to his chest, to his collarbone, to his shoulder. After all, even if it burns, it doesn't
necessarily mean he is going to die.

Does it?

It is easy when Minerva leads. It is easy to follow him, easy to think it is just a dream, easy to forget
Isabella, his name, the memories behind the almost mechanical, practiced steps. Dance is a social
curtsy after all; it is easy to think that Emma was wrong.

It is not so easy when Minerva asks,

"What was the boy from your dreams like?"

Ray's head snaps for him, incredulous, hopeful, to search for at least a hint of the old Norman in the
King's eyes. They answer him with a warm glint, a spark of blinding fireworks in the blue sky, so
much hidden affection, it takes all of Ray's being to keep searching and not flee from the feelings he
cannot contain within.

He tells Minerva a tale of a Prince from a frozen in time Province. Of eyes like lumps of ice, melting
away into the endless seas whenever Ray looked at him. He tells of the land that one day got cursed
with a sun so strong it dried all the water and the Prince with it. He tells Minerva that he has finally
found him again... A sea, a salvation, the Prince from the depths of Ray's heart.

The black Prince doesn't stop looking, almost grasping for a reaction, an ocean he fell in love with,
when a hand on his waist moves to slowly stroke his back, entangling, drawing him closer… The
private dance halts when their chests and hips touch, a box step rendered useless. Minerva tilts his
head as if in a question, asking for permission, and Ray forgets where they are and who he is
supposed to be.

"Interesting." The King whispers, and his eyes are so harrowingly warm, so close, a crushing tsunami.
"But I reckon the Prince would have wanted to stay there, in your heart."

Ray smiles at him, very forced, very bitter, one eye squinted. He is not playing like this.

"It's not polite of me to say this to a King, but you're a terrible lead, Your Majesty," Ray says, and it is
an obvious lie, yet Minerva's brows furrow, a reflection of a hurt ego. "We are not doing the tango.
Let me."

He blows the last words into the King's lips (when did they get this close?), and a hand on the Prince's
waist slackens, silently obeying his request; Ray draws away from his partner in an instance and
doesn't miss a searching, longing look when the position of their hands changes and the dance begins
anew.

It is also easy to lead. It is a routine, and Minerva is a surprisingly good fit for his arms, compliant yet
sturdy. It is so easy… like it was with Norman. But it is easy, as well, to avoid his eyes for once,
pained by a rejection.

It is not so easy when Minerva releases his palm to hold him by the wrist instead.

"Whatever are you doing, Your Majesty?" Ray whispers, sharply redirecting his stare to Minerva's
arm, shoulder, cheek, eyes. A smug grin and twinkles of victorious blue fire are his only reply for a
long while.

"Listening to your heart." Minerva answers, and Ray's heart dies and in a shock of a resurrection beats
out of his chest, out of his wrist, longing for liberation in Minerva's touch. A traitor.

"You're..." Words, Ray! "Quite an unconventional dancer."

"It's just you." The King smiles, closing his eyes, admitting defeat. He plants a kiss on the Prince's
wrist. Opens his eyes. Stares. The heart stops, a peak, a final chord of the violin. "I, too, once had a
friend whose heart beat just as beautifully."

Ray almost moans from the intimacy of the words and a gesture; an indirect proof that yes, this is
him, nearly makes him melt and say the words he would regret till the end of times,

'I want to kiss you right now.'

Nearly.

The thumping desire to say, to demand, to take, to steal hides away, a sneaky thief caught red-handed,
as the music changes. Upbeat tones, freestyle of a dance, country music. Out of touch with their own
atmosphere. Reminding them that they're not alone.

Minerva's hands slowly, reluctantly move away from Ray's body, a dance finished. No strings
attached. He will now walk away and…

"Your Majesty," Ray says, his tone impressively formal given the situation. "I'm afraid I've had too
little pleasure of your company. Could you do me a favour and continue our discussion?" A pause
makes Minerva raise his eyebrow: what for? Ray exhales, his mouth is a strained line, he didn't think
this far, actually… "In private."

Ray is certain his face is neutral and doesn't betray his intentions, yet Minerva's reaction is instant,
and it is the one of

panic.

Raw, a beast scared to death, huddled in a corner, a fear so blind and absolute, Minerva, this
effortlessly graceful white god takes an irrational step back.

Utter, devastating rejection.

"I'm so sorry, Your Majesty!"

A failure, a failure, Mother was right, he…

"No! No, no, forgive me, it's not you, it's me, I didn't expect… Didn't plan…" Minerva stutters for a
second, avoids eye contact, turns his head away, and hides his cheek with a hand as if in deep thought.
The world spins, scorches itself, and falls for Ray still notices a splash of rich red on Minerva's pale
skin. "I don't mind, I just do not deem it wise."

Doesn't mind... Then what was he so afraid of? Ray carefully examines him, his eyes pinned in the
direction of the crowd behind the pillar as if the King is drawn to it, cannot escape it. The Prince
furrows his brows, listening to the giggles of wealthy guests unknowingly intruding into their
conversation. They distract, remind of constant invisible supervision, of purple dark eyes.

Maybe it is the other way around for him, however.

"Wouldn't it be a nice change of pace to breathe in the fresh winter air? I know of a balcony that opens
a great view to the castle gardens."

Ray doesn't show his displeasure as he says it—he wants to go somewhere else, but if all it takes for
Minerva to finally talk is a distant chipper of a cheery crowd, an illusion of privacy, Ray will have it.

"I breathe in the 'fresh winter air' a little too much for my liking," the King says, almost joking, in
relief, "but it would be my pleasure."

Their arms intertwine, the most natural gesture, easier than this whole day, than Ray's whole life.

They follow the walls towards their goal, the doors, expertly evading dancing, jumping, clapping
couples, and through the cracks between them Ray notices Emma. She dances around the live
musicians, still acting as their conductor, whirling and silly and proud, and even though they do not
need her guidance, they cannot suppress their smiles, matching, changing music with the flow of her
brilliant, chaotic dance. A red miracle, everyone indulges her in her theatrics, and even the Empress
laughs to tears, dancing impulsively in a circle with her daughters and son. The star's beloved looks at
her not from far away, hands clenched in fists over her chest, trembling slightly, in awe, complete
adoration, wishing to join her.

As Ray and Minerva turn another corner, the music changes again, now including a harp, and Emma's
chanting laughter rings throughout the ballroom when she comes near the new verdant harpist and
kisses her on the cheek.

It rings and rings as if she cannot possibly bottle and hide her happiness away, and her eyes are
squinted suns when she winks at Ray from a distance, and her merriment shouts that he will be
alright.

And he believes her.

The open door is five feet apart now, Minerva speeds his pace, and Ray doesn't even begin to question
why. He, too, notices a dark smudge for a second, and then it is gone, vanished, erased in a crowd by
other colours.

Maybe he was simply seeing spots now… They both were.

When they are out of the doors, Ray is running. He drags Minerva along, moves their arms to hold his
palm instead, and the sounds of their footsteps align into one, one breath, perfect synchronization, a
quiet laugh.

Just like how it used to be.

Ray doesn't stop before a door to the needed balcony, he smashes into it, and it opens, letting him in,
letting him run further to the railing, further to the-

"Hold on, Your Highness."

A voice halts them both before the railing covered in snow. Ray's hand digs into it, burning him,
stopping him, and his torso moves on impact towards the sky, to the royal gardens, to freedom. He
heaves, slightly out of breath, and bends back to look at his one warm palm, still covered securely by
Minerva's hand.

"Didn't I say… Hold on… Your Highness?" The King stutters, another hand on his chest, trying to
regain his breathing. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

Ray doesn't reply immediately; he studies the way Minerva's chest falls and rises, his fingers lie on his
heart, sprawled like a butterfly, his cheeks gain a beautiful rosy shade from the sudden cold. The puffs
of hot air from his rapid breathing form in the space between them. Ray wonders, a fleeting thought,
what this cloud of Minerva's breath would taste like in his mouth.

It is a ballroom of stars behind their backs, the orchestra of lavish, perseverant, white life, yet Ray
only looks at him.

"Sure, why not." The Prince finally answers, laughs, but Minerva's gaze changes. Hardens, thickens,
and the black of his pupils hides the blue, now the colour of the winter night sky.

"You jest, Your Highness." Minerva smiles and frees himself of Ray's grasp, of his hands and eyes. He
turns away towards the sky and the gardens, a wall, a strained back.

As Ray predicted, they can still hear the festive buzz from the ballroom. Yet now… it feels different.

"You can call me by my name, Your Majesty. We're about the same age and social standing, and…"

"Of course, Ray." Minerva's head snaps, the name from his lips is a whisper, an experimental roll of
his tongue. Ray doesn't suppress a gulp, knees shaking, but bites his tongue just in time not to ask for
more. "But only if you call me by mine."

Oh, great. Another mind game.

Ray is not playing.

"Your Majesty, about that…"

"Your fiancee is exquisitely lovely, Your Highness." Minerva interrupts, talks so as not to let Ray say
anything, an observation to be shared matter-of-factly, formally. His words don't sound like a
compliment. "Even certain women worship her light and the earth she walks on."

The shock on Ray's face says everything for him: what is with Emma all of a sudden?

"Didn't you want to talk?" Minerva asks and simply shrugs, and Ray wants to hold him by the pristine
white of his suit, whiter than twinkling snow and the stars, shake his shoulders, and hiss that yes.

About us. About you. What happened to you. Did you kill your father? Are you alright? Why are you
wearing her name?

Who are you?

"Yes... She's lovely." Ray manages to utter instead, mesmerized by Minerva under the stars. The only
other response in his head is 'I know someone even lovelier', but that probably would be
inappropriate.

"You look good together," Minerva says, a fact, a trivial comment, a common opinion, and it erases
the dreamy atmosphere to replace it with steely fury in Ray's gaze. "I do find your arrangement
strange, however." You always have. "I see little political value in your marrying Her Highness. You're
very unlikely to be able to manipulate her and her massive kingdom. You're too soft."

"Get to the point, Your Majesty," Ray says, his voice is a low, defensive hiss. He has had enough of
everyone claiming him soft.

"I'm only saying to watch out for your Mother."

"Is that some sort of threat?" Ray says, locking his eyes with Minerva's, and steps closer into his
space, a threat of his own. "Quit it, you don't know..."

"No." The King whispers, and a weak cloud of his breath ghosts Ray's cheeks and lips, no, no, no
distractions! "It's a warning."

"It's none of your concern." Ray takes a small step back yet doesn't avert his eyes from the deep,
haunting blue of Minerva's gaze. "If you think me naive and weak," and why does Ray care what he
thinks anyway? "Abandon this thought. I've been perfectly aware of her intentions since the
arrangements have been made. She does everything for the greater good of her people and if that
includes kicking me out of Sachevia and being a sole ruler, a regent 'till Her Highness produces and
raises a male heir, that is fine with me. I know that! I accept that. I'm not fit to rule anyhow, and it is
the right decision to make, and…"

"You are naive and weak." Minerva blinks slowly, words are like wasted, nauseating honey, a stark
contrast to Ray's rapid, heated speech.

"And why the hell do you even care." Ray nearly screams, the last word turning into a slapping crack.
Ray closes his eyes, retreats. Gives up. "Your Majesty."

A freezing hand, fingers colder than death's embrace, land on the back of Ray's neck, and force him to
step closer, to open his eyes once more.

"The same reason you can't stop looking at me like this." Minerva almost growls at him, so much cold
rage, frustration, so much life in his eyes Ray nearly leans forward, even more, to look, to see, to
admire closer.

A hand on Ray's neck relaxes to move agonizingly slowly to his cheek, a trail of cold touches, a
tangible proof of him on Ray's face makes him shudder weakly. The King's gaze grows softer and
lowers from Ray's eyes. Lowers to…

Minerva bites his own bottom lip hard, a familiar gesture, a punishment for uncouth thoughts and
actions.

What were you thinking, Your Majesty?

And then he is gone, his hand and eyes, like a vision, a dream. He is watching the stars and the
gardens a respectful distance apart from the Prince, yet the cold scars on Ray's neck and cheek still
singe him.
"I don't know. I just do." He finally answers, his tone of deep wonder.

Liar.

"Why did you come?" Ray says, at last turning the conversation where he has wanted it to go from the
beginning.

"I already told you." Minerva sighs deeply, tired. "I could not miss the union of two countries…"

"No. Tell this excuse to someone who cares about politics. The real reason, please."

Minerva looks at him, a strange glint in his eyes, one Ray could mistake for respect. He doesn't
answer for a while, contemplates something, examines Ray carefully.

Sighs.

"To see you."

Finally.

The answer to all of Ray's questions is right here. The King needs just a little, tiny push.

Ray steps closer to Minerva yet another time and boldly takes his cold palms. Massages to warm them
up, relishing each finger in his touch. Brings them to his mouth and blows the hot air on Minerva's
skin. His lips brush Minerva's bony knuckles as if by accident.

"You are cold, Your Majesty." Ray says innocently, lips are a small, worried pout.

He waits for a reaction.

"No. No, I'm not. I'm always…" Minerva's voice shakes as he tries to defend himself. Victory.

"It is dangerous to talk ill of my Mother. I doubt your royal blood will save you from her displeasure."
Ray whispers, tone suddenly serious, secretive, a warning. "If you wish to continue to reprimand me,
do come to my room."

And Minerva doesn't resist.

He strides out of the balcony after Ray, led by the lingering warmth of his hand. The Prince strokes
his fingers and knuckles absent-mindedly, cold is a deep bother, and it is all so familiar, so absolute,
Ray thinks Minerva would follow him to the end of the world if Ray only asked that of him.

Minerva only resists before the doors leading to Ray's room.

"Where are your guards?" Minerva asks, disturbed, eyes running over the door and the corridors as if
looking for at least someone.

"I've no need for them here." Ray answers, easy, trying to catch Minerva's gaze.

"And aren't you afraid?"

"What do I have to be afraid of?"

Their eyes meet, and it is raw astonishment, deep, troubled dismay in Minerva's eyes, and gentle,
compassionate understanding and trust in Ray's gaze.

The King closes his eyes.

The door opens and shuts behind them, and Ray lets go of Minerva's hand to stride further into the
dark room, a back turned towards his companion.

A sticking, gurgling suspicion lingers on his mind for why Minerva was so frantically afraid to be
alone together. An unsettling, familiar feeling of a looming shadow behind Ray's back prickles his
neck with goosebumps and his heart with horrifying screams warning of stubbing betrayal.

And Ray doesn't care.

"Are you ready to drop that facade?"

The Prince turns slowly to Minerva only to see not a traitorous, charming, black devil in human flesh
but a lost boy with squinted, questioning, shaking eyes, ready to bolt out of the door whenever the
opportunity presents itself.

Ray's voice shakes, afraid to spook, scare away when he says,

"...I know you haven't forgotten me. I see that familiar gleam in your eyes, and I have never stopped
thinking... about you."

He mouths the rest and swallows the nervousness, attracting Minerva's attention to his neck and lips.

I love you.
Norman.

Ray stretches his hands wide, inviting the familiar young man into the embrace, and Minerva sees
nothing in the gesture but a deadly trap that will let him go if only he bites his limbs off.

Every trap comes with a prize, however; and in this one lies everything Norman has ever craved.

Ray's eyes are pure, dark obsidian that swallowed the light, a black hole, sucking Norman in, and he
loses his sense of himself, he doesn't mean it, he doesn't want to sprint towards the snare, but it is as
inevitable as years back.

The force with which Norman collides with Ray throws them both back, tumbling to the bed. The
milliard of feelings overwhelms them all at once: satin sheets, the startling warmth of another's body,
his eyes.

Norman looms over his Prince, watching, memorizing the way Ray's black hair halos his head, a dark
angel, the way his gaze bends Norman's arms to lower down, the way his lips part almost
imperceptibly, an unlocked door with the tiniest of a gap, inviting in...

Ray closes his eyes just slightly, enough to free Norman of their power, and cannot suppress a small
exhale when his dream tilts his head for an imminent kiss. A canvas that Ray yearns to mark with his
lips, the masterpiece of his life. He feels the cold breath of frost, of ticklish snowflakes, of his
Norman on the skin.

Closer.
...And nothing happens.

The Prince blinks in confusion when Norman's lips touch the side of his neck. Instead of...

"That's all I needed." Ray exhales in relief and well-hidden disappointment, his breath ghosting
Norman's locks, and relaxes under him.

They are lying in a bed that remarkably resembles the one in the Sachevia castle. The likeness is
striking; even Ray's careful gaze that trails Norman's face and shoulders for any sign of discomfort is
exactly the same. The Northern King silently prays that he is the one element capable of change, and
he wouldn't grow as pathetically weak as five years ago.

The acute warmth swallows Norman's body, and he is in ecstasy to be melting, to be dying this little
death; his nose and lips press against Ray's neck, acrid nostalgia grinds his melting down angles into
something this fickle Prince wants (and he probably doesn't even realize that).

Ray smells like worn-out books, red honey, a living, breathing person, and Norman feels an erratic
pulse, a heart, a life under his lips.

The smell of mad honey intoxicates him, seeping into his veins, caressing, threatening his insides with
the poignant promise of sweet lies and horrible death. Yet Norman indulges in it, almost tasting Ray
on his tongue, and it doesn't kill him.

And Norman doesn't kill Ray, either.

The possibilities in his mind are endless: give him to breathe a little bit of extra something; maybe
gently hug his head, circle palms around his neck while he sleeps (choke or twist? agonizingly slow
or mercifully quick? close or closer); hold him in his arms and throw his body out of the window
(should Norman fly with him? what a beautiful dance that would be), and vanish, vanish, nobody
none the wiser.

That would be so easy.

The freedom and trust granted to him this readily make him dizzy, speed up his heart, and he is
breathing rapidly, his whole being screams at him to do something, and fast, hurry!

And he doesn't.

Ray falls asleep so soundly in his embrace, hands tangled up in white curls. Utterly naive,
disgustingly weak, a complete idiot, Norman presses his lips closer to his Prince's neck in adoration
and lets himself be swayed, reformed by this fragile tenderness and absolute trust he has never ever
known.

I love you, too.

Ray.

There is nothing left of Norman the following morning.

 The sheets where he was lying are perfectly smooth, Ray embraces a cold pillow instead of his
darling dream, and the windows are wide open to carry the last traces of him.

Ray wonders if he dreamt of him again. He is not religious, but he cannot help but think that maybe it
is a sign to finally let go of his strange friend who once cherished him, believed in him, challenged
him, and dug into his heart like a parasite.

He should stop this. The confused Prince shuts his eyes and forces his mind to think of his brave
Emma. Elegant, powerful, compassionate, she calms his heated state down only for the mischievous
chilly wind to caress the side of Ray's throat.

...Norman was kissing his neck last night.

No. There was no Norman.

That is quite enough.

I am a willing captive of your eyes

Of silvern clothes ornamented with patterns

Of stinging smirks - a veil for your sadness

Of all your secrets mysteries and prides

I am a willing captive of your lies

Of your intrigues - they're clinging like a bondage

But it's so sweet - to choose, instead of oceans,

Your withering and haunting mirage

Helz

Chapter End Notes

A letter that vanished by the windowsill

Your Highness,

Nothing has quite prepared me for one pair of measly princely eyes to settle deep into my soul.
All the same, I cannot afford to indulge in your affections. Sweet memories I discarded long ago,
they mean too much to me to add an even more bittersweet tint to them. And yet, just like then,
you paint so beautifully... I wonder if you thought of me when you drew that butterfly on the
window.

I'm afraid I will not be able to kill you when the time comes if you continue to be this fond of
me. You linger too much on my mind as it is.

If I were not me and you were not you, I would have kissed you tonight.

Regardless. Her Majesty told me that I would not have to stain my hands with royal blood any
longer. I do believe her to be right. After all, before I even manage to gather my courage and
confess my undying... gratitude... for you...

she will certainly kill you.

 Nowhere to run
Chapter Notes

A playlist: Spotify or VK. A piano composition by Helz.

First and most important, a couple of trigger warnings to accompany this chapter: there are
some events that could cause thanatophobia and claustrophobia.

Second, from this chapter onward I'm changing the rating to M since things start getting kinda
disturbing, let me put it like that (for those of you who long for spiciness in your Ms, be patient:
the work will take this flavour in time. Moreover, I will change the rating once more when we
get there, wink).

Additionally, this chapter is so plot-heavy and took this much time to write 'cause mentally I am
not in the right place (especially considering the ongoing war (fuck Putin) and the approaching
end of my degree). So, I would really appreciate a word or two of your impressions regarding
this chapter or the previous ones (since, well, not many mlm romantic things are happening in
this one, lol) if you haven't shared the treasure of your thoughts with me yet. This helps me
extremely in my hardest times.

Overall, this chapter is a rather unpleasant experience I hope you will still get to like!

"The rumours are starting to spread."

Isabella grew up in the Verhs Empire, yet she doesn’t remember the cold being so strong. The little
people in the capital scatter to run to their homes, some fall on their way, some lose their warm hats,
but life goes on. Life always has to go on even if the blizzard is tearing one’s soul with low songs of
doubt, unburied memories of loved ones, and deep, shameful hatred. This song has few words in its
lyrics.

The words are ‘it’s all his fault.’

That is why Isabella isn’t listening to it. She’s listening to him because no one else understands her
quite like how he does.

"Your son is a disappointment, Isabella."

She knows. She told him as much.

"He is mocking Her Highness with his open affections to the Northern King. The people are laughing
behind our backs, a Prince with a male lover marrying our Princess! The prestige of the royal family
is decreasing because you’re going soft on him. Was my trust in you misplaced?"

"I know. I фm sorry. This will not happen again." She sighs deeply, and something inside of her yells
at her to protect the only one left of her family. "Forgive him. Love is a capricious little thing; quite a
few people are immune to this disease. I am certain it will pass if they never see each other once
again. It was simply a mistake I could not have predicted to occur."

"A mistake?" The fatherly, admonishing tone of Isabella’s interlocutor changes to something
disdainful, poisonous, hurt. "Do you not remember what else was a mistake?"

Isabella closes her ears with both hands slowly, instinctually. The blizzard quiets down, but he does
not.

"Your daughter’s death was a mistake. Your husband’s death was a mistake. Your lover’s death was a
mistake. Your son has always been a mistake, and he’s putting us in jeopardy right now."

"It wasn’t!" The Queen suddenly screeches, trying to outvoice the doubts slowly, painfully poking her
brain with needles. She calms down immediately and breathes deeply. "It wasn’t his fault. It was all a
series of unfortunate coincidences."

"Perhaps. But your sufferings are evident, and they were caused by his enormous stupidity. He isn’t
thinking about his country, about his people, he isn’t thinking about you. What a terrible waste of
space."

Isabella closes her eyes with both palms, thinking, musing, no, no, that is not right, that’s not…

"If only your daughter was alive, it could have been different."

She turns around to him, slow, heartbroken, tears staining her cheeks with molten snowflakes.

"You always have an answer for me, Leuvis. What am I supposed to do?"

He smiles at her, a gift for a correct reaction, a fatherly embrace, and opens her palm to put a small
vial into it. It does not take her long to guess what it is.

"No," Isabella whispers, panic in her voice and shaking limbs. "No, Leuvis, I can’t do that to him, he
is my…"

"He is your mistake, Isabella. And you know that." Leuvis hides his eyes from the Queen all of a
sudden, and a monkey with one eye reappears as if by a command Isabella could not identify. He
whispers something to it, and it disappears into the darkness of the room. "It is a very effective
poison, Isabella. Very painless. Tasteless. You could give it to him while he sleeps, and everyone
would think his heart just mysteriously stopped. You could pin him with a needle on a hand, pour it
into his tea, do whatever you want, and it would be the best death a man could ask for. I can even
promise you that he would die dreaming of his," Leuvis visibly rolls his eyes behind a hat and clicks
his tongue, "his new love."

Isabella doesn’t answer for a while as she examines a vial in her hand. The liquid inside is
indistinguishable from water: the same colour, the same viscosity… It would probably smell and taste
like water if someone were to drink it. An easy, ideal weapon that would leave no traces behind.

But could she do that… to her own son?

"Ah. Love." Leuvis sighs dreamily, looking past Isabella into the unknown as if he is thinking himself
of someone dear to his heart. "You are right, Isabella. Love makes absolute fools out of everyone it
dares to touch—and what a random creature it is! Such a shame it graced your son with its touch but
left you to rot without its embrace."
Something flickers in her purple eyes, cold, disturbing, jealous. A vial is hot in her fingers,
threatening to burn her skin to the meat.

"Don’t think about killing yourself, however, Isabella." He voices a thought that has not yet reached
her mind, but it shocks her to the core. How does he know… "Emma will mourn him, and she will
recover eventually, but you will be mourned by your people. They will not heal without your
guidance."

A tired sigh. Clicks of heels drawing circles across the room. Stop. A bitten, perfectly manicured nail.
A gust of the blizzard knocking into the window, an accompaniment to her rapid breathing,
whispering at her to

Make a decision, Isabella.

"Leuvis." She finally says, and even the blizzard mutes to hear her next words. "You’ve never been
wrong. You’re the best strategist and advisor I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. You’re a good Father
to your daughters, and your son is a delight. I…" Say it, Isabella. "Trust your judgement."

Something loud falls behind the doors, a hiss of a monkey, a gasp, running clicks of heels, further,
further from the room…

Someone was listening to them.

A boisterous laugh from Leuvis is not a reaction Isabella expects from him.

"What fun! I oh so wonder what Emma will do to stop this frankly unavoidable catastrophe.” He
smiles so affectionately, ridiculously adoring, so out of place that the Queen takes a step back. "She
has never bored me. My best, my smartest, my strongest…" Leuvis’ smile grows larger, now showing
sharp, pointed, inhuman canines. For the first time near him, Isabella’s hair on her neck stands in an
instinctual alert. "Daughter."

"Leuvis." Isabella tries to sound composed, even, regal, in control, but her voice shakes, betraying a
deep, primal fear within. "You knew that she was listening… didn’t you?"

"Aren’t you intrigued by what she would do to prevent your son’s ultimate demise?” He asks in a
hushed, delirious whisper, crawling into Isabella’s mind like a milliard of tiny spiders. “Relax,
Isabella. She’s no threat to our mission. Palvus will take care of it."

And Palvus does.

He шs in the nicks of the walls, crawling, quiet, perpetually present, a shadow of Emma's sprinting
figure, mirroring her spin as she turns a corner, and she sustains her fall with fingers on the floor,
runs, runs, let her make it, let her outrun, let her save him, faster, come on!

There wasn't supposed to be any danger to him in the palace, the guards are an excessive measure for
his door, the Royal Advisor insisted. Terror, paranoia stronger, harsher than Emma has ever known
distorts her mind with images of what she could see behind the door: her best friend, her brother, her
Ray lying, breathless, skin dreadfully pale, an eternal sleep, d e a d.

Graceless, loud, Emma slams into his door, nearly breaks it down from its hinges, intrudes like a force
of uncontrollable nature, and Ray only manages to gasp as the furious, red conflagration swallows
him whole in her frantic, panicked embrace, a gravelly whisper in his ear, you're alive, you're alive
you're alive you
"Emma, Emma." Ray wheezes, a hug too tight for his bones, yet he still sounds comforting, warm,
understanding, alive. "What happened? A bad dream? It's okay, it's alright, it's not real, I'm here, I'm
with you, it was…"

It was just a nightmare.

The panicked visions, the teeth, the betrayal, a knife, a vial of poison, Palvus chasing her for the kill.

A bad dream.

She doesn't let go of him that night.

She reassures him that he's right, it was just her mind playing cruel games with her, it's just her deep,
buried fears. Yet she doesn't leave him. And he doesn't try to send her away.

A night is hauntingly loud in its silence; the only sound Emma hears is Ray's even breathing as he
sleeps, and it's a warning scream reminding her that she has to stay awake. It's a tranquil sign, a
treasure she will protect

At all costs.

The changes in the Princess' behaviour do not go unnoticed.

"Are you unwell, my child?" Maria asks her the first thing in the morning during their shared
breakfast.

A swaying, slightly shuddering figure, skin pale and greenish, speech scattered and slowed down,
huge, huge circles under her withered eyes.

Emma does not do well with all-nighters.

"I am. Fine. Mother. Do not…" A sudden, prolonged pause, words forgotten, slow, the world is so
slow, it is spinning, Mom, please, help, what do I do! "Worry. I am just… tired..."

The anxious eyes of everyone in her family muddle, swim, and only one pair of purple eyes comes
into focus when a fork falls from Emma's fingers, and Isabella lifts it, gracious, intent, threatening, a
fork tine pointed in Emma's direction.

"Congratulations, my Princess."

Emma hugs herself with both hands, cold, it is so cold… Nausea overwhelms her, and she clasps her
mouth, affirming the Queen's implication.

Even if it's not true, and Ray's silent, panicked state, hands raised high as if in surrender before death,
is blatant proof of that, Emma still cuts his protests with a gaze so exhausted, shaky, and determined,
he decides to trust her.

It's a convenient excuse to always lean on him, follow him wherever he goes, a statement, come and
dare, come and take him from her, for she will be his shield. Troubled gazes of Anna, terrified eyes of
Jemima and Phil, penetrating, ever-present, looming, dark presence of Father and Isabella, Mother's
disbelief, all of it dulls before Gilda. Gilda, her sweet lady, her companion in life, her moon, her light,
her poem, her absolute, she stares at Emma, betrayed, lips shaking, eyes so big, so round, how could
you, and their promise almost slips from Emma's ring finger.
It wavers Emma's determination. Her consciousness wavers, yet she stomps on her sense of shame
when she follows Ray to the bathroom, feeds him herself, stomps on her guilt, on her dignity… She
will understand.

But Ray doesn't.

"Emma, what is going on."

A full day has passed. Emma stares out of the window from Ray's room, and thick snowflakes dance
in her eyes, little ballerinas, just a moment of respite, a moment of a blissfully empty mind.

Emma leans her burning forehead on a cold window, closes her eyes for just a second… The doors are
barred, every nook and cranny is covered, he's safe for now, she can rest, rest for a minute. For an
hour. Or twenty.

"Emma."

Hot, big, trembling hands land on her shoulders, and Ray, warm, alive hugs her from behind; sheer
relief that he survived knocks the floor under her heels, yet he holds her as if expecting that and turns
her to face him.

"Emma. You have to explain what's going on." Emma does not dare raise her head and look him in the
eye—his voice, alarmed, low, faltering tells her of his worry she, for once, cannot soothe.

It'd be dangerous to tell him. To tell anyone, for that matter. Everyone can be disposed of if they know
too much but not Emma. Too significant for Leuvis, he will not hurt her.

The burden has to be hers.

She blinks heavily at Ray, tries to come up with an appropriate excuse as she lifts her head (when did
he get so tall?), yet something in her Prince's gaze redirects her thoughts into something naive,
nostalgic, and bitter all the same.

Emma's always tried to protect him. From Isabella, from Norman, from the whole world, from his
guilt, and from his musings that have always led him to a darker place, an abyss where the dead claw
at his soul, dragging him low, and he would never even try to resist.

Emma's always tried to protect him. Mostly from himself.

Yet now he looks at her from above, so tall, so heartbreakingly worried, so much life in his eyes she
could have never awoken by herself.

"You've grown so much, my heart."

After everything, will it be salvation now if she ties him to herself? If she makes herself sick with
fatigue and paranoia, will it ultimately save not only his body but his soul?

Emma brushes Ray's hands from her shoulders and turns towards the window again. It's so hard to
think… of a new plan…

"That's not really an answer, Emma." Ray sighs, destroyed, let down that she has to bottle it all alone.
"I'm not asking if it's too much right now. Just know that you can always rely on me. Please."
Emma tries to listen to him, she really does, but the cold of the window on her forehead again is so
soothing, and his voice is so gently low, it's a tiny lullaby that doesn't have to make any sense.

"I know, Ray. I'm sorry. I'm just paranoid. It'll pass. Indulge me a bit. I'll fix it. Do not worry. Go get
some rest. I'll stay for a while. Need to think. Some more."

She tries to concentrate on her breathing and the constant flow of words, changing pauses and the
force of her exhales to stay awake, and something comes into focus, revealing itself on a window
before her eyes.

A butterfly… with one wing?

It reminds her of something…

Of… someone.

"Just promise me." Ray almost begs. "Promise me you'll go to sleep. This is torture to see you like
this."

A plan weaves itself in Emma's mind, perfect, risky, a solution to every problem. However, all the
dangers in her venture, in her trick will be nothing if he does not cooperate. A memory of a furious
child Norman challenging her to a duel in raw jealousy, of grown Minerva whispering to her, "Please,
talk to him after he comes out of this little room. I fear Isabella might hurt him more than I could ever
fix", of the way they looked at each other, the way they reminded her so much of Gilda and herself.

Yet something bothers her, a deep, unknown threat she's always felt from him. Could be just her
paranoia… She throws an anxious look at Ray who's still waiting for her response.

He's her best bet. He will protect her little fox when she no longer can. And if he betrays them…

"Don't worry, Ray. I promise." Emma smiles at him, sweet, reassuring, exhausted, fading sun in the
twilight.

She wipes the butterfly with her sleeve.

It's been a long day. Emma waits patiently for Ray to fall asleep. She isn't fooled when he tries to
pretend, imitating breaths more shallow than his natural ones during his sleep. Her smart, her brave,
her tortured, her beloved Ray.

She cannot believe she has to do this to him.

It's a quiet night, windless, the snowflakes fall in a straight, slow line; the only disturbance in this
stillness is a dark silhouette of a Princess falling from a second floor, rolling on the snow expertly, and
it cushions her, protects her from harm. It's so soft the silhouette stays in the embrace of a snowdrift
for a long minute… Two… Three…

Emma doesn't even hear the crunching footsteps of someone coming nearby.

"Your Highness."

Emma wakes up immediately, raises her head in a panic, checking whether she closed the window.

She did.
She raises slowly, movements still dragged, skin icy cold, snow sticks to her dress and cheek. There's
no time to rest.

At least Gilda is here.

"Were you watching me?" Emma asks, careful, afraid to disturb the quiet again.

"I'm always watching you, Your Highness."

Emma massages her eyelids with trembling fingers, trying to comprehend the meaning of her here.

Your Highness… A title her moon never uses when they are alone. Is someone else watching?

"Emma," Gilda calls, her voice is a whispered, alarmingly calm sound. "Am I not enough?"

What?...

"No!" The Princess gasps, a heavy understanding hitting her in the chest, and she draws near, hugs
Gilda's cheeks with freezing palms, looks into her eyes, a proof of her sincerity, of her guilt. "No, no,
you've always been enough. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I have to keep you in the dark. I love you, I've
always loved you, please, forgive me, it's always been you." Emma kisses her lady's closed eyes, her
cheeks, her nose, her lips, her forehead, each word is a kiss begging her to understand, to trust, to
love.

Hot, salty tears warm Emma's cold lips, an endless stream of hurt relief the Princess tries to catch, to
soothe, to drink her Gilda's pain away.

"I don't understand what's going on." Gilda sighs raggedly into Emma's skin, presses closer, trying to
find answers in the shape of her familiar lips. "I feel… betrayed. Why the story of your pregnancy? Is
it true? Why aren't you telling me? I can help, I will understand."

"I'm not pregnant, Holy Mother." Emma chuckles in hidden embarrassment Gilda has no problem
identifying. "I'm… a little sleep-deprived. Alright, a lot." She corrects herself instantly when Gilda
raises an unimpressed eyebrow at her. "But I need an excuse to stick close to him."

Gilda waits for a further explanation, yet Emma stays silent, closes her eyes, leans her forehead
against Gilda's own, ready to drift to sleep in the comfort of her warmth.

The burden has to be hers.

"I don't know why you jumped out of his window in the middle of the night in only your dress to
escape, but I must warn you that this is highly suspicious. Is he?..."

"Of course, he is not." Emma inhales sharply, an offence in her tone. "I cannot…"

"Don't," Gilda says, adamant, a dark understanding flickering in her grey eyes, tinting them a blacker
tone. A conclusion, an answer made up on her own. "I'll help."

Emma looks at her, really looks at her, her gallant knightess, her gentle friend, her moon and stars, her
sweet, her absolute, her loyal lady that would go to hell with the Princess if it meant that Emma will
not be alone in her endless agony.

Few words are exchanged further, few lingering kisses; Gilda throws a coat on her Princess, and the
Duchess' smell, a perfume of white gardenias lingers on Emma's skin, a comfort, a home, the physical
manifestation of the words unsaid.

It is harder to climb the walls to the Prince's room than the Duchess expected, yet it's nothing new,
and in a blink of a minute, Gilda waves to a retreating into the town figure of her beloved from the
stuffiness of Ray's prison.

Protect him for me.

She turns towards the Prince sleeping peacefully on his bed, crosses her arms, and squints her eyes,
sudden, strained hostility in the gestures. Her pose does not change as if she is a shadow of a grand
tree on a windless day, unmoving, ever calm and vigilant.

She has an idea for why her Emma would weave such a story, put herself at such risk; it's always been
just a concept, something Gilda always had to deal with, a future marriage of her Princess, but it's
always been bearable as long as it's just pretense, as long as it's not real. Yet now, when the Duchess
looks at this young, hopeless Prince for whom her beloved would throw away her honour, her sleep,
even Gilda's feelings, something starts burning in her soul, a demon sitting on her shoulders, swaying
its legs, caressing her left ear with words full of black poison,

It should have been me. I should have been hers.

If everything is how Gilda pictures it… It's all for their good. Emma always knows best after all.

She returns before the sun dares to touch the snow with its light.

The preparations begin.

Before the grand event could unfold, however, Emma keeps her promise. She falls asleep in Ray's
room and doesn't wake up 'till the end of another day.

When Ray rises, he doesn't ask anything. He throws a strange look in Gilda's direction, stares at her
under his brows, leans his head to the side as if trying to solve the mystery from her rigid posture, still
guarding the window.

Not much has changed since the day of the ball: Ray is still stupidly, brokenly in love with the
Northern King, Gilda's favourite colour is still green, the colour of her Princess' eyes, and the only
things they can talk about are books and Emma. Yet Ray notices something new, something familiar,
something gnashing: the raw, hissing, dark hatred. A stone flying towards his head from the depths of
the nightly streets.

He wishes Norman was with him right now.

Ray sighs and tries to catch Gilda's eye. A fruitless effort, just like always. She follows his every little
move without fail, and nothing changes for a while when Ray draws his legs towards himself, his chin
on his knees, and starts tapping a strange rhythm on his legs. It's a very repetitive kind, very slow, not
melodic in the slightest. Gilda's expression is still that of a cold stone, carved to be forever
motionless, forever silently judging, yet at a fifth time of this peculiar gesture, her face smoothes,
expression empty.

Of regret.

Gilda is five years old, and her Princess has fallen in love with a character from a book of old
legends.
Short red hair frames her face, her mouth agape, and in her wide eyes, Gilda reads a story of a brave,
valiant knightess, always strong, always ready to accomplish miracles if so is her lady's desire, topple
mountains, rid the light from evil. She achieves it, all and everything, and saves her Queen from
prison, a noose, a ravaging crowd, her tyrannical husband, the darkness of this world.

Ray is with them, too, a young, silent kid with hair longer than an average boy should have, and he's
engrossed not with the knightess nor with the Queen. He knocks several times on a table, trying to
recreate the way the pair communicated in the prison.

Emma joins him, and their little game is easy. 'A' is two short knocks—one would be too obvious! 'M'
is five rapid knocks—the letter has five vertices! 'Q' should have a knock, then a pause—its little tail
definitely looks like a comma!

They create an alphabet of their own in just an hour, words, suggestions, different kinds of knocks on
a poor wooden table flying in the air. Gilda looks at them in badly hidden anxiety, not keeping up with
their genius minds as if they are one being she will never be able to comprehend, and yet she listens,
she learns, she knocks the messages on wood along with them, practices, and goes along with their
idea to talk only like this for a week.

She's teaching herself how to be smart, to hold a lance, to know everything happening in the Empire
because she wants to be just like a knightess from a fairytale with a fair name of Lance.

Gilda is five years old, and she's fallen in love with her Princess.

It was so easy back then…

She looks at him now, memories of warm comfort surround her as she remembers how this young
Prince always listened to her observations and thoughts on the books they read, how he taught her
archery, how they competed silently, fiercely, cooking Emma's favourite pancakes.

Does Emma really need to be saved from him?

Is he that tyrant of a King, an abuser of a husband?

Gilda concentrates and reads his knocks.

AMIINDANGER

For the first time, she meets his gaze head-on and opens her neck to tap a long-forgotten code of their
childhood.

She traces her jugular vein and blinks at him, slow, sacrificing the years together to carve the last gift
of her soundless gratitude on her skin.

YES

It is a blur of white after that, the smell of plain, boring roses, the sharp pain of needles on the skin as
seamstresses tailor their wedding outfits for the hundredth of times. Emma blinks her drowsiness
away, and weak complaints on her tongue are swallowed by a massive yawn, improper, free, tired.
Ray looks at her, analyzes the way she's staring out of the window, waiting for something; he notices
the unhealthy dark circles under her eyes, covered heavily by makeup, an indication of her continuous
nightly adventures. Thousands of theories shuffle through the Prince's mind, and none explains all of
her peculiarities.
It is a custom for a groom to see his bride in a wedding dress only as she comes down the aisle. Yet
Emma plays her capricious pregnant card, and all traditions turn to dust before her will to never
separate from her fiance. She picks seamstresses herself, hires them so they do not question the
Princess' lady-in-waiting looming figure behind their backs, checking their needles, a paranoid,
strange request to poke their skin first, scrutinizing their clothes, their bodies, their gestures, their
beings.

Ray is smart. Pieces of scattered, disorganized evidence fly in his mind, and yet it is clear: someone
wants him dead. He should find a way to communicate with Emma—maybe a code will do, maybe a
letter if it is impermissible to speak…

A knock on the window.

A beautiful, huge, tawny owl with a hauntingly blue shade of eyes inclines its head, silently staring at
the Princess as if asking for her personal permission to come in.

A pair of four eyes staring at it, flabbergasted, an exhausted sigh, a relief she cannot control escaping
Emma's lips from the depths of her hardened lungs, and without even a blink she runs away, all
pinned needles and unfinished white dress, one overly long sleeve dragging behind on the floor. An
owl, as if understanding, blinks slowly and flies away to meet her.

Somehow… strangely, it seems familiar.

Ray thinks he saw something in its talons.

A letter.

The Prince turns his head to Gilda and is met with the same confusion, wide eyes, furrowed
eyebrows.

Emma… What is going on.

Emma doesn't answer questions and doesn't escape that night. Her sleep is heavy, however; Gilda
strokes her hair on Ray's bed when Emma wakes up multiple times throughout the night, delirious,
terrified, lulled to sleep again by Gilda's quiet, humming voice in her ears; her singing is an embrace,
a miracle, a constant, a comfort, yet when she catches the eye of a Prince on a sofa nearby, Ray
understands.

She is horrified, too.

He plans to make inquiries about this owl the next day, yet Emma throws his plans out of the window
when she announces to their families that she is feeling much better and would very much like to
share breakfast with the rest of them.

Including Ray. Obviously.

She is a thin tree with baggy sleeves of her green dress, pale bark of her skin, deep exhaustion in the
trembling, slender limbs, and she accepts the weight of her sisters' embrace, bending her back, her
brother's small arms entwining around her waist. The withered wood of her branches circles them, a
relief. Home.

Billions of touches, slipped "I missed you"s, worried "are you eating enough, you've become so
thin"s, a clatter of utensils, a quiet laugh, a motherly kiss on the crown of the head for both the
Princess and the Prince.
"Thank you so much, dearest, for supporting my light in her dire hour of need." The Empress smiles
at Ray when the younger royal siblings finally release him and let him sit at the table. "A woman can
be overwhelming when…"

"Like any man, Your Majesty." Ray smiles politely, not so courteously interrupting her.

He tries not to concentrate on the strange, cold, slithering like a whip, stare of Isabella's eyes. For the
first time since their arrival, she stands up, her chair screeches like the caw of a crow at a cemetery at
night, attracting attention, silencing the quiet happiness as if by command.

Isabella doesn't look at anyone as she turns around and languidly approaches a wide table with
different herbs for tea, sugar, favourite cups for each royal member.

The whispers continue as if this is how it is supposed to be now, as if this has become a new tradition
for Isabella to prepare breakfast tea for everyone. Nobody blinks an eye.

Emma does.

"Ray." Anna, sitting next to Ray, calls him and touches his elbow, shy, eyes stubbornly scrutinizing
intricate patterns on a tablecloth. "Were you… drawing anything?"

She throws a timid glance at a pencil on his ear, used more as a hair clip for his bangs, really, yet he
isn't seeing her. He is watching Emma standing up, silent, her chair moving soundlessly, eyes covered
by red hair, and nothing betrays her intentions, and no one's watching her as she steps closer to
Isabella and whispers…

"Ray."

Ray blinks, suddenly feels a curious, intense gaze of sweet little Jemima drilling his exposed ear, and
then everyone's looking at him, even Phil, even the Empress.

"I was, in fact." Ray stutters, intentionally slow words and an artificially bashful smile.

He isn't sure he wants them to see his sketches of a Northern owl next to the eyes of his…

The smile suddenly doesn't feel as artificially bashful now.

He builds a dam on a river of his hectic thoughts (he has all the time in the world to wonder about the
unsettling similarities between them. Truly, maybe Ray simply misses him) and pulls a notebook full
of little sketches from an inner pocket of his jacket. It's all loud gasps and marvels over his talent,
over the way he draws Emma, and in between the exclaims, he has the time to eavesdrop on the
snippets…

"I assure you, this is not difficult for me…"

"Why, in your condition…"

"...allow me… Or… Knows what will happen…"

"...threatening me, Your…?"

"Yes."
As if waiting for her signal, the doors slam open, and Gilda, panicked eyes, deep bows, a curtain of
hair covering her face, rushed speech, apologies slipping off her tongue, appears, divination, a
promise of a miracle.

"The Northern King has arrived, Your Majesty."

"We didn't expect…" The Empress only manages to exclaim in badly hidden displeasure, disbelief,
before Ray stands up, his chair falling on the floor, and he sprints to Gilda, a whispered word,
"ballroom", isn't even fully born, and he is gone, a gust of wind, so desperate to see, to feel, to make
sure that

He wasn't a dream.

In the ensuing chaos, Emma blinks at Isabella, slow, testing, sniding. Poisonous.

"Who would have thought?" She states, pouting, putting on a show, an exclusive only for her
opponent. "Your son is so over-excited. I've seen the way he looks at the King. How dangerous would
it be to let them stay alone…"

"You're lying."

A bold statement. Shaking pupils of deep, terrified violet. Sped-up breaths. A skin of white, clean
pages of Ray's endless notebooks.

Emma knows where to push.

"Can you risk it, Your. Ma. Jes. Ty?"

A dark, vile torrent, smelling of acacias, deep basements, and tasteless water, hits Emma's nostrils,
pours into her, molds, chokes, dragging into the abyss of the seas of an approaching sin, yet she
doesn't turn around when Isabella predictably runs after her lovestruck son. On her high heels. All
practiced poise—gone.

The cups full of delicious tea are already served when Ray returns. With Isabella. With Gilda.

No Norman.

He isn't listening to the endless stream of apologies from Gilda's mouth. A horseman on a white steed,
a messenger from the North, arrived without any notice prior; Gilda simply overreacted, she is so
sorry for the mess, nobody rides a white horse but a King, and she assumed in a panic, the guards
thought…

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care for long, lingering, communicating looks between Emma and Gilda; for a tense figure
of Anna, hands closing the last pages (filled with sketches of infinite blue eyes) of his notebook in a
hurry; for pitiful gazes all around, too understanding, too much.

Ray sits on a chair that someone set upright again, slumps, and heavy bags full of burning rocks fall
from his shoulders, and he is deflating, a pencil drops, and unkempt bangs cover the side of his face
completely. Yet Isabella blinks, and it is all gone: shoulders roll back, a spine straightens, a head snaps
to look ahead, a soulless, perfect posture, like all it takes for the strings to pull his body at her wish,
stripping him of his will, is just a single, weak blink of tired, peremptory, purple eyes.
Yet they cannot control the tightness in his throat and chest as if the water and all the hope of this
world have been dried away from his being, his cheeks shrivel as if he just aged up at least forty
years, and he, effortless, mechanical grace in the gesture, drinks tea from his favourite cup mindlessly
to soothe the clutches of this thick dryness.

Sweet.

He likes his tea strong.

Everybody knows this.

Everybody?…

Wild eyes, a realization, green eternity, she isn’t looking at him, and he pales, and he inhales, and he
tries to spit this out of his mouth, and he chokes, hands grabbing white tablecloth, and he falls, and it
covers him whole, a shroud, and the teacups shatter, a cacophony of glass severing eardrums, and the
throat closes up, and the eyes bulge out, and the veins almost pop out of his neck, and he rolls on the
floor, mouth open, a mute scream, and he cannot breathe, he can’t, can’t, and someone cries, high,
piercing, disappearing, Ray, Ray, ray… ray…

Ray.

Her Ray lying, breathless, skin dreadfully pale, an eternal sleep, d e a d.

Emma does not have to fake tears.

She is the first after Jemima to curl over him and holler, and beg, and utter delirious, horrified
nonsense, and scream for a doctor, and choke to bitter tears herself when this is all but confirmed.

The day of Ray’s birthday is not the letters from his secret lover, a massive cake, a soft pillow made
of snow, wishes for his well-being and happiness but tears, tears, rivers, seas, oceans, mountains,
skies, people made of salty water, and him.

Dead.

Emma does not ever stop crying.

She weeps, low, soul-shattering, hugs his coffin, the one she made sure to pick herself, as they ride in
a carriage to bury him in a royal tomb in Sachevia where he belongs, screams at night, and loses her
ability to speak.

Loses her 'child'.

Everyone understands. The Princess of the Empire lost her beloved fiance to the most unfortunate
accident. The Kingdom has lost its hope, its Prince, and the dark veil on everyone’s faces makes them
forget that he was cursed, about the rumours of his enamourment with the Northern King. Everyone
mourns with her.

Gilda does not.

She is always staring at her Princess, strokes her back, embraces her head, rocks from side to side,
and doesn’t understand. How to help, how to stop this, these endless pictures of Ray choking on the
floor, painting themselves in her mind with his strokes, haunting her, scraping her brain, her
nightmares, every waking moment of her life, what’s going on, she did exactly how her Princess
wanted, this was supposed to be a good ending for them, and she is crying all the time, too, and one
day, when she is sure they are alone in the forests on the border of Sachevia, she mutters under her
breath, after a fit of tears, hiccuping, useless,

“Please, stop, my love, I beg you. Stop crying. If you need my forgiveness, you have it. I forgive you,
I understand why we’ve done this, and if this is too much we can run away, I will always love you, I
will always protect you, I…”

Emma brusquely lifts her face from her hands, clasps Gilda’s mouth with them, pushing, a strange,
brutal strength in the gesture, eyes clear, void of the poison of guilt.

A blank voice emerges from the shadows behind the trees.

“You do not have to hide from me, my ladies.”

Emma’s palm falls from Gilda’s mouth for it to be covered again by Gilda’s own hand. The Princess’
lady-in-waiting pose changes in the blink of an eye as she covers Emma with a protective stance, with
her whole body.

“Your Majesty.” Emma says, acknowledging Isabella’s presence, her speech monotone, cold, so
much chilly, concealed hostility in her voice, Gilda for a second turns her head towards her Princess,
all of a sudden terrified of her.

“I frankly do not care why you’ve done what you did.” The Queen rustles, her dark figure and purple
eyes emerge from the trees, proof that they can see and hear her only for she wants them to. “He had
it coming.”

Gilda cannot see her Princess’ face, but the barely audible, hitched sound of her breath transfers the
blind, dark horror to Gilda’s veins.

Has she… ever cried for her son these days?

“The only thing I need to know.” Isabella’s voice finally gains some colour, of steel and threat, as she
says. “Is what you did to the child.”

“There was never any child.” Emma spells out, disgust, abhorrence in each word when she, at last,
spews all the poison on her tongue at her. “Your Majesty.”

The forest covers the dark figure of its Queen in its black branches and whispers, malicious, with its
leaves,

Liar liar liar

That day, Emma reveals all the truth to her trusted companion and makes sure no traitorous tree would
overhear their conversation, and no gust of the wind could send away the stunned gasps of Gilda to
Isabella’s ears.

The tears dry from Emma’s face completely, giving way to charged wariness when Ray’s body on the
way to Sachevia does not decay. The people in the capital of Sachevia call him a miracle, a saint, a
martyr, a new God, and the increasing rumours that the Prince’s body should be waxed and
persevered, make her speed up her plans. By her hand and invisible presence, the Concilium of
famous doctors is to be called and they will confirm his demise. God has abandoned his people, after
all.

Before that, however… the head of the Concilium expects her arrival in the dead of the night.

It is not hard to slip away—the countless times she disappeared in the darkness in the Empire serve
her, and she is a crouching figure of a hunchbacked hag, muttering insults in a low, grating voice to
every bandit, drunkard, streetwalker in the dirtiest, the most miserable city block in the capital of
Sachevia. Gilda follows her, a shadow of nonexistent flickering lampposts, a man with a knife, a
woman with poisonous heels, a ghost, a corpse…

When a hag and her shadow enter an inconspicuous cabin, just another abandoned house where
dealers of the datura herbs might as well hide, they merge with the darkness and disappear under the
floorboards.

The crone, all crooked back and hushed mumbles, blinks and rises, a perfect, straight line of her
spine; a cape falls from her shoulders, revealing the lush green forests of her eyes and the wild, long
waves of red hair falling over her face. The hag transforms into a Princess, and the invisibility cloak
drops from her bespectacled companion, and in the massive laboratory two ladies, a queer wonder,
silently, in unison stare at the person lying on a medical cot.

Ray.

Still. Dead.

It takes all of Emma to finally address the man in black garb, his back turned towards them.

“It is very nice to see you again, Doctor Smee.”

It is not, actually.

First, it is the smell. Encompassing her every sense, blinding her with ethanol, bloodletting, and dead
rats, the odor hits her nostrils, and her pristine mask of benevolence nearly shatters, revealing cracks
of disgust on her face. Second, it is his black dress. It reminds her of funerals, of nightmares where
Ray chokes, of dark coffins, and even darker soil. Of death.

Emma’s never liked Doctor Smee. And yet she asks, all saccharine sweetness, polite, and pleasant,

“Is everything prepared?”

When he turns, slow, all stiffened limbs and stretched muscles on his neck, with his whole body, a
syringe with strange liquid in a trembling hand, glasses so big and thick they almost cover his
scorched with scars face, Emma remembers.

Third, it is his eyes. One is white, blind, constantly motionless, always staring into Emma’s soul, the
other of a particular type of blue, a fading colour of grey, rolling in his eye socket, scanning for any
danger in every centimeter of the room, never for even a second stopping on anything, paranoid,
running like cockroaches over Emma’s skin.

She shouldn’t think badly of him… All of him, from his scars and his smell to his eyes, is a
consequence of the numerous experiments that he conducts on human corpses, his rats, on himself. A
rumour, a miracle of revival, a black market, a dead rat brought back to the land of the living right
under Emma’s constant supervision. A risk, a life, a secret, a promise, a deal worth more than this
Kingdom.

If all it takes for Ray to live his happy ever after is his demise by the trembling hands of this
messenger of the Death, Emma is willing to endure him for another hour.

“Of course, Your Highness.” Doctor Smee says, his voice is unusually high and cracked as if his
company for a long while has only been one of his beloved rats. “The Concilium will proceed as you
desire.”

His eye stops for a second on a dead Prince, and Emma follows it, only now, under horrid lighting,
noticing Ray’s skin has turned a marbled, greenish shade, almost black. She knows it is nothing but
the deception of the Doctor, she knows this is not actually happening, she knows he is not dead, and
yet…

“Do not puke on him, Your Highness.” Smee tries weakly at a joke, and Emma does not manage to
hide her distaste when he turns away again to scribble something in his papers, hiccuping laughter
escaping his dry lungs.

The Princess sighs, the sound drowning in the hysterical cackles, and beckons her lady-in-waiting
with a hand. A hefty sack filled with golden coins falls on her outstretched palm, and she comes to the
closest table to drop it and finally leave.

Until she notices something out of the corner of her eye.

A parchment of paper. A letter. Pristine handwriting. Beautiful cursive.

A signet. A tawny owl.

A date. The day after the ball.

Silence.

A hand drowning in the pleats of a black coat. A movement of a shadow out of the corner of the eye.
A flicker of a lamp, engulfing a room in darkness for just a second. A glint of steel in Princess' hand.
A throwing knife. A swing.

A grey eye staring right at her. Straight. Unmoving. Disappointed.

"Before you do something you might regret, Your Highness." Smee whispers, slow, almost inaudible,
playing dead, harmless, trying to distract, soothe an infuriated predator. "Remember that he will not
wake up without my assistance."

A frozen second of her hesitation is all it takes for his eye to harden and for him to close the distance
to Ray's body. A syringe terrifyingly close to the Prince's dry, 'rotting' neck. A threat in the Doctor's
unwavering hand, a cold determination, an intent.

"Get your girl friend away from me, and I will not hurt him."

Emma throws a panicked glance behind Smee's back, and Gilda reemerges as if born from his
crooked shadow, a knife barely touching the Doctor's neck, almost dripping thick blood, and scarlet
drops threaten to fall on a syringe, on Ray's body. Emma blinks once, and Gilda is already beside her,
and Smee steps away from Ray, splashing his shallow wound with ethanol and covering it with a
bandage.
Emma is shaking, adrenaline blinding her to fight to smashed knuckles, to broken to shards syringes,
to run until she cannot breathe, just like Ray, yet she asks, her speech even and pleasant as if this
whole situation didn't just turn into a bloody mess.

"Are you working for the Northern King?"

How could she be this reckless? How convenient was it, really, to find a doctor with exactly what she
needed?...

"That is for me to know and you to find out." Smee cackles in his weird, hiccuping manner, yet now it
all seems fake, a play, a ploy, and Emma wants to howl and rip her hair out by the roots in punishment
for why she didn't notice this.

How is he involved any more than necessary? How much had he known before it all unfolded? Did he
plan… from the begi-

"Didn't you receive his letter, Your Highness?" Smee whispers like a snake that he is, and Emma has
never before wanted to knock the venom out of someone's teeth as much. "He is very willing to
cooperate. That wasn't a lie."

Was it all staged? Was she played around his little finger? Why would he need to trick her like this?

"You have no choice but to trust us," Smee says, easy, shrugging his shoulders, not even a threat as his
face contorts and he massages the skin around a bandage with trembling fingers. "Proceed with your
plan, Your Highness."

It's always been easy to show whatever people wanted from her, be it significant results in political
studies or forced gracefulness where she would rather jump and screech in delight. It's always been
easy to arrange countless masquerades where each mask is a version of her desired image. Yet now…
She stands there, bare, and every wise political strategy blinds before rage, grace turns to a stone of
muscles, and her masks shatter for her face to scream one thought,

Is it too late to grab Ray, hoist him over her shoulder, and run?

She has to find another place, she has to protect him, she has to think, think, the North, this is a trap-

"Your Highness." Smee starts, a casual address, scribbling something in his notes again. "Do you want
a war?"

A war…

Mother used to tell her of war. When Maria was but a child, the sky tore open to spill endless oceans
of muddy red waters, a wound in the sky, the pus from it dripping on land, on people, scorching them
with plague, with pain, with rotten grains, dead-born babies, and people still fought, still screamed,
the world dying around them, inside them…

Everything perished in the fire of humanity's stupidity when Emma wasn't even born.

The King should know the stories, too.

"He will not attempt this." Gilda hisses behind her Princess, and Emma, warmth spreading through
her body, calming her down, setting her panicked state of mind to rationalizing peace, Emma
remembers that she is not alone. "We've done nothing to provoke the Province. And he knows better
than to start this: this will go against his religion."
A smile blossoms on Emma's face, proud, relieved. But of course: Northern people believe that it was
the wrath of their deity, a cry of Hers to stop this madness, that caused the apocalypse. This is just a
farce!...

"A war, Your Grace," Smee says, monotone, yet Emma hears a strange sort of mockery in his voice.
Patronizing. Disgusting. "Does not require reasons. I fear you haven't learned your history lessons
properly: a wrong person in the wrong place, a misplaced intention, spoonfuls of lies, stupid devotion,
one royal member killed in an unfortunate accident…" His tone does not change, his face does not
turn, yet Emma feels his seeing eye stabbing her, cornering, everywhere, on the walls, in the shadows,
inside her mind. "So little is needed for people to start a massacre. And besides… Just a thought. The
King's will is that of the Goddess."

He suddenly stops, turns to stare at Emma, and all the eyes around her rush to grab her by the jaw,
forearms, and knees to make her bend under his gaze.

"With that in mind, Your Highness. Who will it be, your people or him?"

Who will it be?...

Will she send her Prince to the arms of a person with an empty shade of eyes, ice for a heart, and a
knife behind his back when he bows and asks for an embrace? Will she send Ray… to his ultimate
end?

Or will she protect him from the northern winds and be the cause of her people's piercing screams, of
their deaths?

Norman…

Didn't she tell him not to fight over Ray?

The choice… The burden… has to be hers?

She is shaking, violent tremors of the inner earthquake, and her eyes shift in her eye sockets, just like
the Doctor's, to run across the room smelling of rats, ethanol, and death, and

a hand softer, warmer than a spring day, a night close to a fireplace in harsh winters, a fur blanket, a
silly romance book, life, lands on her shoulder.

Gilda makes it all go away. An earthquake, rats, the eyes. The choice.

The burden.

Emma sighs, deep, under her breath, squeezes Gilda's palm, strokes her long fingers, trying for the
paints of her bravery to imprint on Emma's skin, and steps forward.

Doctor Smee does not stop her when she caresses Ray's long bangs, his hair, dirty and dry like dark
hay.

Her best friend. Her nerdy, gentle, talented, unbelievably smart,

dead

heart.
Who will it be?

Preposterous.

She will save everyone.

Everyone.

Everything.

Leaves this world in the darkness.

In the eternity of colour black.

There is nothing in death but the void, the infinity of one long, long moment filled with no thought,
no face, no feeling.

No God, no hell.

A liberation? A disappointment? A lingering hope? Drowning? Flying?

No.

Nothing.

No Norman.

Norman?

It is his eyes.

Always his eyes.

Prying, quiet, endless, asking, demanding, scrutinizing, sharp, beautiful.

Blue.

Maybe they were mistaken? And death is not black?

But blue?

The dark was nothing.

The blue is everything.

 Tingling, pushing, hurting, sweet, kissing, encompassing, burning, eternal, moving, touching,
breathing, too much-

Breathe, Ray.

And he does.

It all disappears, a dream, a death, for his body to take an excruciatingly heavy shape, for him to snap
his eyes wide, open his mouth, choke on air, wheeze, cough, loud, violent, painful, a convulsion, a
smell of something rotting-

He bangs his head on something above, meowls, pathetic, an attempt to run away from this wretched
odor is a failure, and he tries to breathe less, and he tries to understand why he has gone blind.

Calm down.

Think.

He blinks yet cannot see. Eyes do not hurt, eyelids are just strangely heavy… A dark space? Fingers
do not move, limbs do not listen to him—has he been in this state a while? The rotting smell?

A coffin?...

Has he been buried alive?

Did he die?

Ridiculous, how could someone leave him, abandon him under the dirt, he's alive, and the darkness of
the walls presses, presses, suffocates, crushes, he is alive, how could Emma allow this-

Emma?

Why?

How could…

Doesn't matter. Not right now.

He inhales strongly, just to test his theory, and yes. Apart from the odor threatening to turn his organs
inside out, air is plenty—good.

He has a chance.

Yet all of his luck stops after convulsions, a weary, last breath, for he lies there, and not even a muscle
of his fingers twitches, nothing obeys him, laughing at him, ridiculing the freedom—just open the
casket. Just push it.

He closes his eyes, and everything compresses him: horrible nausea, thousand needles poking his
stomach like a voodoo doll, a smell sticking to his insides, eating away, chomping, killing, slowly, and
the darkness behind his eyelids swirls, pressing on his brain, and the bubble of air explodes,
disappears, covering his skin with terrified goosebumps and lungs with ashes, and he will die, not
again-

You are naive and weak.

Ray opens his eyes.

Blind, breathless, a vein protruding on his temple, he grits his teeth, locks his fingers, pushes his
hands on a side in a straight line, supporting trembling limbs on a hard surface, and moves, moves,
moves a lid with an elbow.

It works.

A stale, familiar smell hits him, faltering his arms, yet he pushes, pushes until he can finally see the
ceiling of his family's royal tomb in full.

A moment of dead silence. A quivering, nervous, unsettling giggle disturbing the eternal sleep. A
cracked, hissing whisper,

"Am I?"

As if this was the last effort of strength his body could ever afford, his arms fall again, eyes close, and
he bites his lips with bloody force to escape, to distract himself from the constant trembles and a
mind-splitting, searing pain in the stomach.

The agony doesn't pass when Ray opens his eyes again. It dulls after a restless sleep (he is uncertain.
Maybe it's been only a minute. Maybe twenty hours. The forever unchanging shadows on the grieving
walls tell him no clue, no sign, give him no rescue), dulls every sense, dulls him as his eyes gain a
shadow of exhausted indifference.

It dulls even this rotting smell, yet it is still there. Everywhere. In the inside of his nose, his brain, on
his skin.

...on his skin.

For the first time, he manages to raise his arm without any restraining, tying shudders.

Utterly black. Belonging to a deceased person.

He cautiously brings it closer to his nose and inhales.

It is clear immediately.

Paints. His whole body is covered in smelling black paint.

Ray raises, slowly, the usual fast-thinking process is staggered by pain, and he breathes, deeply, rolls
his eyes, his frozen to death muscles on the back, and feels something sharp poking his chest inside of
his black jacket.

As he tries to get the source of his irritation, the puzzle finally finishes itself in his mind.

Paints.
A fake for a dead body. The greatest fraud.

Amiindanger

He already knows the contents of her letter.

The words muddle in the shaking focus of his eyes, yet he already knows that Emma is telling him to

run.

Ray,

I congratulate you for you have returned to the land of the living. You are in Sachevia, in your
family's burial vault. It is February, and you have to run from the country.

If this has settled, let's move on.

Bad news: Isabella and my Father tried to kill you. I have an inkling they will not stop for whatever
reason and, thus, you can stay neither in Sachevia nor in Verhs. You are not safe here anymore, and
constant protection of you is out of my hands.

Please, forgive me for the physical turmoil you might feel right now. I had to act fast to save you. I
poisoned your tea with a special kind of drink that put you to hibernating sleep; no signs of life, no
heartbeat, no reaction to external stimulus. You were as good as dead, and I thought... No one could
kill you if you are already dead.

Good news: I've already prepared a carriage for you outside of the city walls. The boy riding it is
Gilda's trusted servant—he will not betray you. Close the casket. Use your passage to escape. Avoid
attention. Burn this letter. Be safe.

Our common acquaintance, the Northern King, will protect you at the end of your journey. At least
until the commotion quiets down and I deal with the traitors in both our countries. I know of your
feelings, but… I advise you not to trust him. Don't fall for him any more than you have already. He is
hiding something, and I do not understand why he would want you beside him so desperately…

That is all for the main instructions. I also strongly advise you to drink the liquid from the vial in your
pants when you get out of the tomb. It is an effective potion that will cause an instant vomiting
reaction—I know, don't make that face, but you will feel better after this (I can only imagine how you
must suffer right now).

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that this had to happen, my heart. I'm sorry I'm not saying goodbye, I'm sorry I
had to kill you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I

I will fix everything. But until then... I pray you can forgive me.

I will protect you. Even from him.

I love you, Ray.

 The Journey
Chapter Notes

A playlist! Spotify or VK. A piano composition by Helz.

So, it's been a while, huh? A war happened (is still happening), I wrote my thesis, got my
bachelor's degree, got severely depressed, so, yeah. It did kind of impede my writing rhythm. In
apologies for the tremendous delay, the next chapter will come out in three days with an
illustration! I so happen to have already written it.

This chapter will be an emotional ride for a couple of reasons. While I was preparing for my
final exams at the uni, I really got into Sartre's existential pieces, Nausea in particular, and I do
believe his style influenced mine significantly. Whether it's a good thing or not is not for me to
judge. You will notice that the beginning of this chapter, its end, and some events that will
happen in the chapters to follow, are kind of... different, heavier in tone, let's put it that way, yet I
assure you they serve a retrospective narrative purpose.

To the good part! Trigger warnings: descriptions of severe physical injuries, hallucinations,
insanity.

Thank you if you're still sticking with me!

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Sylvia Plath

Has it always been so… so cold?

Coated in a veil of dust, of morbid frost, of exhaustion, of hollow, echoing footsteps, Ray leans on the
wall of a secret passage with his shoulder, puts his feet in a shaking zig-zag, barely breathes, eyes
closed, afraid, sick of each inhale, of a speck of dust to tickle his throat and nostrils, of his organs to
abandon him through them if he exhales too deeply, if he…

The darkness descends upon him, condescending, endless, judging, when he closes his mouth and
nose, deathly pales, and sneezes miserably.

A light chuckle, gentle and childish, is born in the pits of this scrutinizing, devouring consciousness
hell, of Ray's own mind.

That's really cute.

The Prince's breath shakes, his darkness spins, his stomach churns as he slides to the floor and closes
his head with both hands, protecting, instinctive.

Chaotic and painfully bleak, Norman appears in all of his forms, and he doesn't add up, warping, a
picture with familiar lines, a fire, an adoring smile, a promise of a kiss, a threat, a pair of almost
glowing blue eyes in the dark, a recollection, a revival of something inherently, utterly warm, of
something he's never known, and he…

"How can you see that?" Ray manages to grate with a voice so different from the memory it startles
him: low, trembling, grown-up, almost weeping, so tired, so gentle, so foolishly in love, he coughs,
unaccustomed to speaking, a horrifying sound that breaks against the stone walls and pierces his skin
with shattered glass, his stomach and throat constrict and close up, and his breaths speed up, faster,
gasping, not enough; the darkness chomps him, his stiff leg, his scorched to ashes lungs, his haggard
mind, his being, his Norm…

The Northern King will protect you at the end of your journey.

The Northern King and the Verhs Crown Princess bow and curtsy before him, hands extended. They
ask him for a twirl, they stare at him, the only ones he's ever loved, they make the darkness disappear,
they softly laugh when he accepts, one cold and scorching, another warm and kind, support him as he
falls back, legs bound and shaken, they grip his hands, and sprint, and lead him to where he cannot
see. He coughs the ashes of his deceased Grandmother's house, the long-gone fire touches his skin, his
hair, his eyes, and all that was and will be curses and paints him ashen black, and he succumbs to it
and screams, and hands, one cold and scorching, another warm and kind, a stark contrast to this
hellfire, touch his cheeks and lead him to where he cannot be hurt no more.

Every nook and cranny of these streets is a mystery long-solved to him,

yet now the tiny houses bend and swim and muddle all one the same and none they loom and threaten
to collapse and break his every bone and bury him for good for ever more and every lamp is a child of
sun in zenith orange white and blinding and every mother tells you not to stare at it yet it stares back
and through the tears the lumps of spontaneous masses lament survive and bop from side to side all
thoughts and movements meaningless deranged all set to autolife and in this world where all is cold
and kind the time has passed away

and in this world of orderless existence where King of north and princess of the Sun have always been
will always be

When something comes alive and sets it all upright and makes his meanings die, Ray looks between
the cracks of wobbling buildings, and something stable's coming close, large horse, large eye, large
hat, large intake of a breath, large grin of knives that guts his stomach and closes closes

closes in

Death, now turning head ever so slowly, expecting, almost trembling, has found him, and it is the time
for him to run, yet that same time is mocking him for it has killed itself above his head, and all he has
is frozen limbs, and

now is the time for him to die.

Let me.
Death is not what he'd expect, for it is cold and kind, and touches the black of his last suit and pushes
the fingers even further, it grazes his skin and tinkers with the clock inside his heart, one arrow at a
time, its fingers long and freezing, it messes, it caresses, it moves inside and breathes into his mouth,
it dares him to survive, it squeezes the frozen heart of suicidal time and doesn't close its eyes.

In the first gasp of the restored universe, the death reveals itself to have the bluest eyes he's ever seen.

Ray leans forever close and yearns to kiss him back, to taste his breath and feel the marks upon his
bitten lips, yet he is gone, of course, he's gone, and all that's left is orange blinding lights that pulse
inside his eyes and plead for him to flee.

He darts between the corners, he feels his way between the narrowest of walls, he hears the faintest
I'm so sorry and doesn't understand the words or who is telling them to him. He bumps into a goo that
is supposed to be a person, he nearly shatters into dust, and walls of stone are sticking to his skin, a
glue of goo connecting them to one, and he accepts their embrace, he needs a rest, one second, please-

An arrow thrusts itself into the cracks of stones an inch beside his head.

A warning.

A game.

The walls screech in pain and let him go, and no one dares to touch him now, and no one dares to
claim, for Something Else is munching at his sprinting shadow, an aperitif before the main course, the
taste of the dead Prince's brain.

His torturer inhales the flavour of his fear, the walls collide, and the darkness shrinks before it bursts
into a dead end, and Ray would have climbed over it and, falling, broken every bone if only the
barricade of black didn't have eyes.

"No…"

Not now.

The darkness moves and will not let him pass.

The darkness sighs, a sound of fury, bitterness, and strange regret, and says,

"Yet even dead you still trespass on our territory. The rule does still apply, Your Highness."

The leaders of the eyes come forward, they step into the light, all thin, haggard, and grown-up, they
emanate a threat, a threat so weak and hesitant, it's all so clear they are his wishful thinking, they are
the ghosts that can, at last, forgive him,

(the same that Norman was and kissed him into the sanity of life.)

"Thoma, Lannion. I am so glad to see you." Ray says, half coherent, not here, not at this age, he falls
before them on his knees and dares to utter in the voice of an eleven-year-old the things he could have
never said only because his abandoned friends do not exist. "I could not help you, I could not save
you, I am sorry, I am so sorry for never thinking to protect you, that is my fault, it hurt so much to see
our Mother discard each one of you, but I couldn't, I couldn't, do, do anything, and that's what I
deserve, I am so sorry-"

"Tell us one good reason why we shouldn't kill you for good this time."
The coarsened voices interrupt his speeches. Ray blinks at them, attempting to remove the dust that
clogs his eyes, and doesn't even think before he answers, sincere, resigned, and dry,

"I do not know."

They better hurry.

It's all so bleak and weird, he wobbles on his knees, his body not supporting him, he's looking at
himself as if his soul has left him at long last, and now the shell of a body remains here, waiting to be
slaughtered, dirty, void, pathetic, a ragamuffin in Prince's clothes trembling, weak, and just like them,
his dear, abandoned friends.

He's seen so many forms of death this night it stops surprising him. This death, mismatched, all
wrong, has freckles on the sun-baked skin, two pairs of eyes that contemplate too strongly, deep scars
of wrinkles on the forehead, chaotic marks of teenage pimples, rough, awkward hands that lie on
Ray's head, and shake, and shake, and cry in place of a husk of him,

"We've never truly wanted you to die. Ray."

The body's caught in their hold, one blink, and he's pushed into the cover of the shadows, gone,
eyeless, senseless, odorless, one blink, and he has died a second time.

The soul stays there, keeps watch, it hides behind a nasty chimney that stains its hands a dirty black, it
watches as Something Else circles the narrow alley on his horse, hops on the ground, and traces the
body's footprints on the snowy sand, as he inhales, raises his head, slower, higher, to stare right
through the invisibility cloak of Ray's transparent soul, to stare

At hands dirtied sooty black.

Ray gasps, the pain clenching his temples as if unsharpened knives are drawing a disarray of lines
over his skull, eager for it to crack, still savouring each moment of his torment.

"...Thanks, guys… I really owe ya one."

"...He's spiraling, Don… It's getting worse. You don't have much time before he…"

The world spins and tilts awkwardly when the darkness spews him into the hands of someone
abnormally tall, strong, and so unfathomably, like nothing else in this horror of a night, physically
warm, Ray for a meager second allows himself some rest at last…

…A powerful jolt of the earth cracking underneath him drags him to the side and crashes his body
with the wood, his hands are shaking, the walls are cackling, leaning in to press him 'till his ribs are
fractured, and he is thundering, the splinters on the weak fists are of no bother, the wood is creaking,
clicking, and lets him go.

The walls are doors that swing in fury and dismay, the ferocious wind is hitting them ten punches at a
time, it raises Ray's hair, it opens his forehead, and he's staring at the road that flies under him, a taupe
ribbon, he's staring further, further…

At the dust under the hooves of a horse belonging to Something Else.

A scream is muffled by the road dust that fills his mouth, and Ray is crawling, crawling back, his
back hits solid wood, he's shivering, he's watching, watching the arms of Something Else pulling at
the bowstrings, he knows what'll happen next, the arrow's darting killing laughing tearing towards his
open forehead—

RED

BLOOD is pulling from his flesh, and he's rolling on the floor, and he's SCREAMING at the view of
a thrust arrow that holds a torn-off, bloodied piece of him, a swish a swish a swish of arrows hits his
left ear, an upper part of which is GONE, and he is cradling himself, not feeling any pain, and
whispers thoughts delirious, an open mouth that makes no sound, lips moving against will, "A tiny,
modest present for Her Majesty", and laughs, and laughs, and fades away…

The earth stops shaking under him soon after, heavy footsteps behind the wooden boards reverberate
in his one ear that isn't clogged in thickest blood to a membrane, and someone shouts, inhuman
volume of a voice, unfitting, painful, digging to the bones,

"Man, why would Leuvis of all people hunt ya down- Holy Mother, are ya alright?!"

This someone crawls to him and reaches their hands to inspect the damage to his ear, to soothe, to
help. Ray opens his eyelids, wet blood still clinging to eyelashes, and gasps in putrid horror, and
cannot move a muscle, stuck in this sleep paralysis, and sees himself.

Himself, looming over him, stature void of emotion but just one, abhorrence, that reaches his hands to
tear the rest of what is left of him, to jeer, to make it worse, and blood is pulling, it inundates Ray's
consciousness, it paints the colour of his twin's eyes a dirty, gruesome, royal purple. Behind the veil of
purple blood Ray sees, as if in a mirror, himself crying, pathetic, weak, self-sacrificing, self-
destructive, and so, so infinitely

worthless,

he cannot bear to stand this.

"THE FUCK?!" His twin is dying with each syllable of a voice that cannot possibly belong to him.
Ray's fingers twitch erratically, flexing into a shaking fist, and he is staring in confusion at the reality
he doesn't recognize. "I'll gotta give it to ya. For a sheltered princeling, you sure can punch! But this
won't do, Yer Highness."

The next thing he comprehends, someone grabs him by the forearm, pulls, sets him upright, and while
his head is spinning in protest and buzzing pain, his lifeless, twitching, dirtied sooty black hands are
bound and tied, and he is staring at his wrists, he flexes them and doesn't understand why snakes of
ropes aren't biting him.

"No offence, no offence, nothing personal! Now I really need you to open your mouth for me. Say
'ahh' for Ma!"

Moronic and utterly lost, Ray almost instinctively opens his mouth, a poor, slowed-down reaction as
if his jaw is a broken, unoiled, forgotten mechanism, one blink, and this loud guy shuts his nose with
two fingers and pours thick liquid down his throat, and it's so bad, it's rotting scraps of spuds, it's eggs
filled to the brim with suppurating chicken, it's decomposing corpses, it's all so sickening, it's shaking
Ray's world, it's brightening, it's sharpening, it's making all of his nightmares disappear before the
never-ending feel of decay inside his mouth, his throat, he's not going to…

"Atata, hold it for a sec!"

A strange, sadistic guy splashes Ray's face and mostly ear with water, he tears a piece of fabric from
his own tunic, he deftly bandages Ray's ear with calloused fingers, he quickly grabs Ray under arms,
action of such fast motion it dangerously shakes the contents of his stomach, and Ray is closing his
mouth with tied up hands…

"No! Hold it! Ya will not, I repeat, ya will not ruin my wagon with this psychotic garbage!"

Only when Ray's knees bury themselves in the softness, dampness of the snow, the stranger pulls his
bangs away from his face and ear and slaps his back almost encouragingly, Ray is allowed to break
the chains of madness, of the depravity of mind, his world is getting clearer with each spasm, he isn't
even breathing, one only thought circling inside his head,

An effective potion that will cause an instant vomiting reaction…

The muscles of his bound hands cease responding, he nearly flies face-first into a pool of his own
filth, yet a stranger catches his shoulders, supports, and doesn't let him fall, and stays with him 'till
this is all but over.

He thinks he has blacked out. For whyever else one second he is on his knees, in the most disgraced
and ruined state he's ever been, and the very next the fresh cold water caresses his sore, dry, scarred
throat, a feeling of such clearness he hasn't felt… in

Days?

Weeks?

Months?...

How long has he stayed dead?

The water's not enough. He would have dried out oceans if only not for salt, yet a stranger thinks it's
quite enough. Ray blinks at him, exhausted, empty, and destroyed, yet now he sees a person in what
was once a shadow of his hell.

A person puts a loaf of rye bread and a jag of heaven that is water near Ray's body, looks at him
warily, hiding an emotion so powerful his efforts are in vain.

Worry.

"I will untie yer hands right now, a’ight? I mean no harm! Here's some water and food. Ya can eat it!
I'm not yer enemy. Friend! Don is a friend. And ya do NOT beat yer friends." A person spells each
word, making grand gestures with his hands as if Ray is a street dog that bit him to his flesh when
shown kindness and will, no doubt, bite him again.

Ray's gaping at him as if he's gone completely mental and cannot hold a hysterical chuckle in his
throat, thinking the most bitter, look who is talking.

Before the snakes of ropes obey this strange boy's rough, hardened fingers, he covers Ray's head and
shoulders with a warm plaid, quick, slightly scared, careless, yet still amusingly enough the plaid falls
just exactly so it would not disturb Ray's bandaged ear.

He jumps away, a rapid motion, from Ray as soon as hands are freed, and darts away from him, and
Ray cannot quite be sure his awkward, loud rescuer has heard the quiet, musing, wondering,
"Don?..."

He silently obeys, mind blank, hands weak and so, so slow, the bread is eating more of him than he is
eating of the bread, and water's soothing grains of it into tasteless porridge in his mouth, the most
delicious he's ever tried in all of his... seventeen years now.

Soon, they are driving once again, this time much slower as if to lull Ray into sleep. Yet he cannot do
that for the world is so ungrained, so solid, so unshaken, he cannot help but think

What was that?

What even was that poison that Emma had to kill him with?

Did he completely go out of his mind?

Did he imagine all of it?

Did he imagine Emma, Norman (he thinks of him and cannot help but sigh a bit too breathy), kids,
and Something Else…

He cups his ear and shoots a glance above his head where the arrow is supposed to stay, still stuck and
holding a torn-off piece of him.

…It is gone.

…He thinks it's for the best. Yet asking wouldn't hurt. Ray turns his whole body towards the tiny
window behind his rescuer's back, already opens his mouth, and forgets all before one question,

"How are ya feeling, Yer Highness?"

"Better, I think… Don, right? You stopped looking like my worst nightmare at least." Ray whispers
and covers his bandaged ear with a palm, suppressing a hiss of pain in the trill of Don's abrupt, loud
burst of laughter. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Aww, it's no big deal, Yer Highness. Ya're a fine lad. I'm sure ya woulda done the same for me."

From the small window Ray studies his companion's features; a tint of shame pokes him when he
notices a worsening bruise on Don's cheek, and a feeling reverberates through his ear, turning into a
physical reminder of salvation he repaid this grotesquely.

Don's face is peculiar; plain and coarse as if he was moulded by rough, inept children's hands, and
Ray sees a strange beauty in him, in his strong jaw, his broken multiple times big nose, in the
annoyingly loud exuberance of his eyes, in the comforting familiarity of his ever-present, out of place,
caring smile.

Ray doesn't stop looking at him even when Don notices his stare and winks playfully, mindlessly,
goofily, one eye at a second, turns around again, and Ray nearly snickers in childish delight.

Guess he was caught.

"Hey, Don…" Ray calls for him weakly, and a young man turns to him in a blink of a moment, a deep,
almost uncomfortable concern and a willingness to help flashing in his eyes. "I'm fine, fine." The
unrelenting glee, a buzz of a thousand mosquitos eating away at the edges of his torn-apart ear insists
that he is not actually fine. "You can call me Ray. Since, I'm sure you are aware, I'm not… a Prince
anymore, I wager."

He doesn't want to admit why that would be so important, for Don to call him by a name.

(For Norman to call him by a name.)

(A title is a wall which he cannot destroy, that binds him to the duty, to the shackles of the crown, to a
life that someone else has set in stone for him, the same that starts and ends within the royal tomb.

A title is a curse in and of itself.)

"What?! I can't hear ya, Yer Not Princeliness!" Don chuckles and hums in overly sarcastic thought.
"Your High…less? Highnessless? Lowness? Princeliness…less? Less ness hi… Le…" He strikes his
hand against his knee as if he's just lost in rock paper scissors five times in a row. "Goodness
gracious!"

"Eloquent much?" Ray says, mimicking his frantic sarcasm, and snorts, the first emotion other than
horror gracing him, uplifting him.

"There! This word! I know it! Ya can't throw fancy words at me and expect me not to know them. I
do! Eat this!" Don exclaims repeatedly, puffing his chest, pointing a finger in Ray's direction. A
strong laugh, spasmodic, and eruptive, a reaction to his theatrics, overwhelms Ray before he recovers
himself in shock.

He doesn't remember the last time he felt this small, insignificant elation of laughter.

Unexpectedly courteous of him, Don says, almost ashamed, "That ain't be real nice of me to call ya by
yer name, Yer Highness. Ma and little Miss taught me it was bad…"

Don suddenly stops his speech, stares into the space, into the never-ending landscapes of wheat fields
hiding shyly under the snowy capes, and Ray redirects his gaze to admire the shine of the stars above,
blinking, giggling, tired, but so, so endlessly free, leading their little wagon to a better place, filled
with a promise of tomorrow where Ray would stop hurting, stop rotting, stop disappointing; a better
place where Ray would leap into the blue waters and be absolutely, unconditionally… happy.

"Duck… Duh… Duct…"

Don mutters under his breath, a confused murmur merging with the monotonous sounds of hoofbeats
on the soft ground.

"Conduct! My goodness, ya royals sure have some tough vocabulary in ya."

Ray huffs, a whisper of a laugh, and after that, the world is still. It all makes sense in the serenity of it;
the itchiness in the nose from the cold, Don's quiet breaths, the rhythmical rocking of a wagon,
prickly old furs scratching Ray's skin that smell of dead bonfires and a life unbeknown to him. Yet
from his tiny window, the sky is just a shred of a masterpiece to which Ray does not belong, and
everything is all at once a reflection of that: a sketch, a memory, a betrayed trust, a forgotten for long
five years lost Prince. Ray sighs raggedly, and it takes all the remains of his strength to stand, to bump
his head lightly on the roof of a wagon, and then crawl out. He peeps warily, makes sure no Royal
Advisor with bows and arrows made of steely agony rides behind them, and climbs up the roof of the
vehicle.
Ray lies down, wraps himself in one of the furs, and watches, memorizes the sky, all the little dances
between still stars and rare, fickle snowflakes, and for a while, he does not comprehend, he loses the
sense of the existence in the dark skies, in the wind conductor, and he imagines himself a star dancing
along with one, two, ten, a hundred snowflakes, searching for the one he's lost.

"Want me to tell ya a bedtime story?" Don asks in a loud whisper. "Ya could use some rest."

Ray breathes deeply, reads the constellations on the sky, and Don, in his low, unfittingly resonant
voice reveals to the Prince secrets no book in any sheltered library could ever recite: he tells Ray
stories of people destined to be one with the stars, of kids born with the light of the full moon in their
eyes, of women sacrificing their torn ribs for the bridges forming constellations, of men crying in
harrowing pain so desperately the night becomes a waterstarskyfall, for the whoever it is who dwells
in the world above to stretch their arms and accept the agony, the mistakes, the light, and tears, and
welcome those with missing ribs, shattered hearts, and eyes full of stars.

"Ma told me all of that when I was a baby. Always hoped so hard to see these sparkles of the stars
when I looked into the river each morning. Nope! No stars! Never even seen one with those! What'd
ya think, Yer Not Prince…"

Don turns around to see Ray lying on his back on a wagon, arms are a pillow for his head, his eyes are
closed, his breaths are even as he sleeps. As he smiles.

Don can only wonder what this strange Prince with the eyes of dark starless skies can dream about to
smile so blissfully.

And the Prince dreams of a beautiful young man lying next to him, with the dust of the moon on his
white hair and eyelashes, the slow pecks of it, of him falling on Ray's skin, and Ray admires him, his
wide-open chest, and wants to ask what constellation his missing rib helped bring together. Yet all is
silent as the sky of Ray's embrace accepts him all, completely bare, skinless, and in his blue eyes, Ray
sees the brightest star of all.

He sees himself.

…The Moon is heartless for she is mortal. She sighs, a quiet sound, full of regret and morbid malady,
and she dies; the stories, the constellations, all the people, all the touches, all of the world, all of his
Norman turn into moondust and vanish, vanish in Ray's arms, leaving only the ghost of him, of his
eternity, of his meaning.

Scattering in the darkness. Leaving only a promise.

I will wait for you.

All that remains of him.

The Moon is dead; her beloved sister strokes Ray's face, a lazy motion, presses on his eyelids like a
bored little kid, and Ray obeys her. He blinks, lulled into a dreamlike state by the shaking of the
wagon under him, by the sun in February, a miracle that turns the white world around him into a
spectacle of glistening diamonds on the most majestic of crowns.

Ray thinks of Norman's hair and how the sun-dazzled snowflakes would turn the crown on his head
into a halo.

Ray thinks of Norman and for the first time in many, many months, he smiles.
A long stretch, an even longer sigh, a furlike blanket falling from Ray's shoulder as he sits, rubs his
eyes, inhales fresh winter air, and feels it claiming his lungs with light dizziness, life, and azure bliss.

And I will come back to you.

"A very good morning to ya, little star!" Don exclaims on the brink of a shout, turned towards Ray,
and for a minute doesn't say anything else. The lost Prince looks at him from the roof of the wagon, so
utterly dazed, and so widely, unbrokenly smiling, Don stares, unblinking, eyes out of focus. Ray tries,
tries so hard to erase the smile, not to make a fool out of himself, bites his lip, yet it only widens
(that's what Norman always did); he covers his mouth with a hand, yet his eyes are wrinkled, the
deepest reflections of the suns creating universes in the black depths of them, giving him all away.

Don flinches and turns away from him, an unnaturally intense gaze on the barren road ahead.

"What were ya even dreaming about? Ya look so mighty happy the stars might as well have chosen
ya! Fess up." Don asks even louder than usual. "Did ya dream of a particular Princes…?"

"He's no longer a Prince, however." Ray raps out immediately; the abrupt realization of what he just
said and the ensuing dead silence bar the huff of a horse (that sounds suspiciously like a snort) makes
Ray’s blood churn in his veins, freezing him, boiling him hot, he's ruined it, he's ruined everyth…

"So the rumours were true! Ya really do have yerself a royal boyfriend!" Don bursts out of nowhere,
making Ray's eyes pop out of their sockets, turns, winks at the Prince, wiggles his eyebrows, and
giggles, a strange sound, belonging to ardent gossipers and mischievous little girls, and yet of the low
bass that makes the red on Ray's cheeks prominent even under the rotting paints.

"He's not my boyfriend!..." Ray tries to sound firm, yet his voice cracks to a miserable high pitch at
the last word, and he nearly screams in frustration, they haven't even kissed!

"Pah-lease." Don rolls his eyes, not buying Ray's panic at all. "Y'all people are literal everything my
village is buzzing about. It's so boring in February, and I swear to all the stars, I've heard so much
about ya, ya've become a walking legend, my friend. Man, it's real incredible how some people wanna
shoot ya in the face for disgracing Her Highness while there's, I kid you not, also a secret club of
women—positively screeching!—who gather behind closed doors just to discuss where ya
disappeared and what in the blazes ya were doing! Gosh, I was so curious once, eavesdropped, my
bad, the worst mistake of my whole life, never doing that again!"

Ray blinks at him, absolutely appalled at the endless stream of words that never seems to end, his
mouth hanging lower, and he thinks his head will explode from red embarrassment if Don doesn't stop
this instant.

"And what do you think?" Ray blurts out, a tactical interruption.

"Me? Why should I care?" Don asks and stares at Ray in such confusion the Prince might as well
have risen from the dead (and that, he has). "People treat it as if it's some big deal, but really,
everyone's been charmed by a handsome guy at least at one point in their lives."

"Oh, don't we all?" Ray doesn't think it's quite the case but doesn't comment further.

Don is many things: expressive, talkative, kind, turbulent, ignorant, impolite, familiar in a way Ray
cannot put a finger on, but most important of all, he's intriguing.
Ray hops from the roof of the wagon at the coachman's seat, stunned for a second at the loud protest
of his muscles, and then a fragrance, a certain kind, that Ray has never known, makes him draw closer
to his companion.

Don smells of grass, of rye bread, of horses, of the freshness of the nights when the stars are the
brightest, of simple things, of simple life. Ray inclines his head closer to savour it, to imagine for the
simplest of seconds that he could ever live like this as well.

The young man observes the Prince for a meager, perplexed second and silently moves away from
him to the edge of the seat, dangerously close to falling on the snowy ground.

Ray pretends, a gesture of roughly trained politeness, a cover for his wounded ego, that Don didn't
just flinch away from him like he's a person diseased, contagious.

"You know an awful lot about me. Would you care to tell me about yourself?"

"Why would I?" Don mutters suddenly, defensive, serious, and quiet.

Ray furrows his eyebrows; he'd think a person as voluble as Don wouldn't react that way…

"Forgive me if the request came off as too personal. I would like to know you, still; in truth, your
stories and your entire being appeal to me." Ray says and carefully examines Don covering his
darkening cheeks with a scarf, his eyes meeting Ray's in growing curiosity. The Prince presses on
with the tactic. "As you may know, I'm… not the best Prince to my people. Was. Pardon." Don
chuckles in response, and Ray sighs in relief. "I haven't known the pleasure of common people's, like
yours, friendship in many years. I would very much like to correct that. If you would allow me."

Don gazes at Ray out of the corner of his eye, chews on his cheek almost thoughtfully as if picking
words, a gesture so transparent it startles Ray.

What is there to hide from him?

"I don't know what to tell ya, honestly. My village is close to the estate of the Grand Duchess where
little Miss lives as well. We're under Her Grace's protection, as Pa calls it. He works as an equerry for
the family and everything practical my siblings and I know comes from him and our little tours
around the mansion."

Don laughs out loud, deep in the memories, and shows Ray such a smile the Prince feels like he's
holding it in his palms, a treasure so fragile he doesn't think himself worthy of it.

"And Ma was Her Grace's handmaid for as long as I've been around. Ma taught us how to read, and I
spent literal hours in the estate's library simply amused at how letters combined into actual words!
And it made, well, stuffy, but actual sense! When we couldn't hang around, Ma or Pa always stayed
with us in the village, and man, it was so damn fun when we were all together, you shoulda seen how
Ma and my elder sisters were playing tag and jumping across the fire!..."

"Were?" Ray interrupts and bites his tongue, yet the word is already out of his mouth, and he's cursing
himself, why, why, why did he say that?...

"Ma is… gone."

Don spells the words as if he's barely comprehending them, as if he's only just learning how to read,
and the letters don't make sense yet, and he's turning to Ray, a strange stare, intense, careful. Sorry. "I
don't blame ya, Yer Highness."
"Blame m...?"

The world.

It is drowning.

"What… wha…" Ray tries to say and gurgles, a choking sound escaping his throat, and he gasps,
clenching his neck and ribs, and coughs two wretched syllables: "Mo…ther's…?"

He doesn't hear the answer. He doesn't need to.

I'm sorry i'm sorry it's all my fault please no nonono don't don't pull me out where is sister Krona
where is the puppy why why why am I breathing motHER WHY IS SHE NOT BREATH-

"FUCKING HELL, YER HIGHNESS." Don screams, and the world shatters and wobbles, and Ray
yelps, and the memory falls apart before the burning pain on his cheek, and Ray cups it, staring at
Don in absolute bafflement. Did he just punch him?! "I'll tell ya what, I wanted to do that for the
whole day! Thanks for the opportunity! Now will ya fucking listen to me? Pretty damn please."

That was uncalled for… Ray thinks and moves his jaw warily, caresses the inside of the hurt spot with
a tongue, and has to physically restrain himself not to turn around and sulk in silence.

"I know, and I really wish I didn't, that blasted story about ya being cursed or whatnot? Listen here,
my Ma died not because this princely ass right here is one little tragic hero from yer stupid little tragic
stories of yer stupid fancy (not little, I'll give 'em that) libraries, but because she chose to save ya! I
know her, I know she did what she thought was right, and I know, I know she adored ya and yer
Mother! Don't pull that shit of a boo, I'm cursed, I'm so dark and miserable!..."

"I don't actually control that…" Ray stutters weakly, a tiny attempt to halt the avalanche with only his
bare hands, and it very predictably ignores him, burying him alive.

"...It's bollocks and not a fucking curse, and ya're alright, and ya know what, I think I would die for ya
too!..."

"Oh, please, don't do that…"

"What I'm saying is!" Don outvoices him, yells, and points his index finger in the air. "Ya're
disgracing my Ma's heroic choice by treating her like a victim. Man."

"I'm… sorry?..." Ray says and makes a hiccuping sound between a sob and a hysterical laugh.

"Don't apologize, what! I told ya, ya did nothing wrong! Did ya listen to a word I said, huh?" Don
shouts, abandons the reins to ruffle Ray's dirty hair, aggressive and playful, and Ray lets it all out, this
insane month, the pain on his still aching ear, the never-ending guilt, the longing, lets it all burn and
explode when he laughs like he has never ever had.

He laughs like he was born an endless toy balloon, like he can forever be free, like he is suffocating,
but at least for once in his life he's not dying, and he's alive, and Norman, real, is waiting for him, and
the sun above warms his neck, and Ray laughs so much he thinks he's crying.

What's most important. Don laughs with him, too.

"I'm glad I met you." Ray says, out of breath, eyes watering from unsuppressed giggles, and his throat
constricts, cutting his laughter short, dipping them both in a very strange silence. Unfitting, making
Ray turn his head to check what's wrong.

For Don doesn't answer him.

He stares at the lost Prince, a gaze of soft wonder, careful questions, and deep, almost embarrassingly
so, affection.

Ray coughs loudly, a sound that screams of affectation, averts his eyes, and says, dodging,
inconsequentially, "So. Little Miss?"

Don stares at him, and for a long while his eyes do not reflect any emotion, any feeling. Any person.

"Is that who you see in your dreams?" Ray continues, smiling gently, pretending this… situation
didn't just happen. "Do you dream of the Princes…?"

"Little Miss is no Princess, though." Don sighs, still disturbingly quiet, and massages his shoulders,
easing the tension in them. Looking straight at the road.

"What is she like?"

"She is… perfect." Don says, finding it hard to form words, yet with each one, his voice becomes
louder, his speech evens to an increasing speed, and for the first time, Ray is delighted that his friend
is babbling. "It's like she came from the covers of the books she's always loved so much. I'm way
beneath her, but she never treated me like this. It's the opposite, actually. I once stumbled upon her at
the estate's fancy library, literally buried under the books, and I saw her big forehead and that
awkward almost greenish ponytail of hers—get it? PONYtail?—sticking out of the walls of books,
and man, I knew that was love at first sight. Like, imagine the finest horse you can, turn her into a
human, and it'd be little Miss. A bit tame, real pretty, graceful… bad eyesight, though, that's not nice,
yeah… whatever. Anyway! She never looked me in the eye but, boy, I've never met a person more
attentive and heartfelt. I told her all about my life—she never even once raised her head from her
book to look at me!—yet she was leading the talk, asked me what horse at her family's stables was my
favourite, laughed a little at my jokes, and, ya know, I may be able to read, but it's really hard on my
head… So whenever we were together, she read to me out loud, and her voice, damn, Yer Highness,
her voice could as well be painting pictures of all the stories in my head, and I would do anything for
her, and…"

It is funny how she never mentioned you, Ray thinks and has to fight himself not to hug Don with all
of his remaining might.

He extends his artificially rotting palm instead and says, awkward and weak, "I'm… sorry. I
understand what it's like. To love someone who could never reciprocate."

Don shuts up momentarily, and the silence spreads between them like moldy butter on the rye bread
of sawdust. The son of equerry eyes Ray's hand almost warily and finally looks at the Prince in a very
peculiar manner. Loud, open, and almost excessive, this time Ray cannot read the queer emptiness of
his stare, the particular kind, in which Ray swears he notices the glistening of the stars.

"First of all, I don't know what ya're talking about. Little Miss adores me. That is a fact. If she does
not want to smooch me, it does not mean she doesn't love me. Just… differently."
A hand raised between them freezes in the air, a thought, like a dagger, piercing through flesh and
bones,

Can this be the case for Emma, too?

"A-and, let me be frank with ya, Yer Highness." Don wrinkles up his nose in pretentious disgust and
doesn't wait for Ray's permission to continue. "You stink."

"I-I, wh…" Ray withdraws his hand as if he's just got slapped, and his voice cracks, a note between a
squeal and a threatening growl that makes Don let out a snort of laughter. "Didn't your little Miss
teach you a fraction of good manners?!"

"A'ight. Educate me then: how do I say, using yer shmanners and all that, that ya smell like ya've been
dead for a month?"

"Well, I'm sorry! It's been a tough month!"

"Don't scream at me! I have a perfect solution for ya! I, if I do say so myself, am your saviour for I
will rid ya of the…"

"For crying out loud, Don!"

"Let's go bathing!"

Ray blinks a couple of times, sure he's just misheard it.

"Well… Above all else… It's… inappropriate?..." Ray sounds as if he's not certain, as if he's trying to
find an excuse, and doesn't truly wish to gather the source of his discomfort.

"What's inappropriate?" Don asks in a tone between genuine, appalled bafflement and a hidden layer
of coy, almost flirtatious, sarcasm. "Yer Highness?"

Nothing, Ray thinks brusquely and rubs his eyes, trying to dispel the pictures made with harsh strokes,
of solid arms, wide shoulders, a thin neck framed by wet, white, sticking to the skin curls, and…

"I've been bathing with my siblings and friends ever since childhood completely naked…"

"Moreover!" Ray interrupts, rude, curt, nearly reaching for Don's mouth to shut him up in fierce zeal,
yet instead, he points at the snow all around them in a feat of frantic panic. "It's February! Cold! The
water will be cold! We'll get sick!"

"It's almost March, Yer Highness! And ya're offending me! I'll take care of everything!"

An hour doesn't even pass, and Ray, flabbergasted, arms crossed over his chest, a stare of empty,
capitulating acceptance, looks at Don making a fire, sitting on his knees near a still, calm lake,
untouched by the ice. Ray walks after Don like a lost little fox, hands outstretched uselessly, as his
friend grabs a teapot and about six plaids from the depths of the wagon, marching proudly towards
their freshly made source of warmth. Ray sighs, bestowed by nothing, looks at his free hands, and
warns Don of a tree in his path: it is complicated, he imagines, to see anything behind a wall of
wool…

A teapot is most entertaining, Ray muses, examining its colour and texture with a vivid interest as
Don undresses in seconds, howls, and jumps into the water, rising terrified droplets that shoot to Ray's
side, making a teapot boiling above the flames hiss belatedly.
"Do I quite need to undress myself?" Ray hisses along with the teapot, stubbornly refusing to look at
Don.

"You refine even the filthiest of clothes, Yer Highness." Don shrugs his shoulders as if stating the
most basic of truths, and his nonchalant tone along with a bizarre remark are all that it takes to pull
Ray's attention by the black collar. Immediate frustration at himself coloured with red blinds Ray for
Don's wink is not of a goofy kind for once. "Ya'll get a cold if your clothes are wet after that, though."

"Fine. Fine!" Ray seethes and already reaches for a pile of snow to throw in Don's face, and his friend
bursts out laughing, so loud he might as well be making ripples in the water. "But you won't be
looking at me! Do you hear me!"

"Deal." Don agrees immediately, turns away from him, and closes his eyes. The hand clutching the
ball of snow softens.

…Too easy.

The clothes stick to Ray's skin, a painful tear as if he's been glued to them, leaving their black mark
on his being, and the cold pinches his naked form, and Ray's trying not to think what the water would
feel li-

Boiling.

It is so freezing that it is frying him, kneading his legs, squeezing his stomach, drying his lungs of air,
crumbling his teeth into a chattering dance macabre, and Ray is hugging himself to stay alive, to stay
intact.

"O-o-oh, Ho-Ho-Hol-ly Mother, how in the l-li-living he-hell you're a-a-alri…"

"Chop-chop, Yer Highness!"

A stuttering yelp resonates against the water and the white bark of the trees when something hits Ray
straight in the middle of the forehead. He flails his hands awkwardly and barely catches a lump of
soap between his shaking palms.

That was a bit too precise, Ray fumes, gently rubbing the hurt spot.

"Yo-you are still loo-looking, y-y-you!"

"Me?! How could ya ever think of me so." Don sighs like a cheap, drunk actor on the stage of a tavern
with sticky floors and covers his eyes with palms, seemingly and finally staying very still.

Thinking that he won't last much longer in these waters, Ray takes his breath, puffs his cheeks, closes
his nose with a free hand, shuts his eyes, and disappears into the stone wall of muffled senses.

All is gone.

________________________________________

For a second Ray opens his eye in a choking panic that a block of ice has just appeared above him,
and he will stay here forever, and it feels so much like dying, all over, all at once, all the same,
everything cracking, darkening, freezing, and now he understands what has been waiting for him,
what it means to be forever trapped in the stone.

His head spins from panic, and the only sound is of the water speaking in his ear in a language he
cannot comprehend urges him, almost a scream, to hurry, and seizes his wrist, a tight clench of an ice
shackle, and he washes himself from the dirt, the rot, the nightmare, his face, his shoulders, and his
neck, so vigorous it borders on pain, making him feel something again, a slap, and he smashes the ice
with his head on an impact.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A desperate gasp, an open mouth, a hurting, burning from the water eye, a bucket of embers that are
the difference in temperature tearing the skin from his face, and Ray lifts the bangs out of his sight,
over his forehead, to paranoidly rub his eye and check on his bandage around the wounded ear.

It was hours for him in the stone of water; when Ray notices Don staring at him in the gaps between
his fingers, he sighs, tortured lungs and hurting throat, understanding.

Mere seconds.

"See? Ya look mighty fine, Yer Highness."

Don raises and lowers his palms from his eyes as if playing with a child, and laughs gleefully, yet
averts his eyes obediently as Ray blushes with rage and shame.

He destroys even the notion of a nightmare. The madness of Ray's mind pops like a balloon, not
withstanding the nonsense of Don's existence.

And Ray tries not to look at him, either.

…It is so warm he wants to fall asleep.

Cuddled in three fur plaids, with only a tip of the nose pointing to the crackling fire, under the
protection of lulling warmth, Ray holds a cup of boiling water filled with leaves of thyme, sips it
slowly, savouring, barely breathing, as the fullness of the taste and aroma claims his lungs and mind.
The steam from the cup hides the world, dims, smears the colours on the monochromatic palette of it,
of all of his senses, and the constant buzz of Don's speeches tickles Ray's brain in a way that…

It drowns out the pain.

For a blink of a moment, he stops talking. Ray shudders, barely moves his fingers to the freedom of
the cold, puts his cup inside a pit in the crunchy snow, and leans into Don with his whole body. Not
even a word said out loud, Ray squeezes Don's plaids, mangled from numbness fingers and black eyes
capturing his covered shoulders, and Don is talking again as if nothing happened.

…It is so warm Ray has fallen asleep on his shoulder.

A week later he thinks he is getting used to this. To this peaceful existence that doesn't know the
meaning of disturbance, silence, turmoil, and mental torment. Yet Ray couldn't even expect how
utterly right he was.

For Don snores.

The road to the North is full of laughter and increasing cold. February rolls to March, the road and the
edges of the forests are harder to navigate, and Don decides to grant the lost Prince a gift: a night on
the warm bed in the last town of the Verhs Empire, the last place of civilization where they could eat
to their hearts' contents and the horses would be attended to by someone else.

The town is quiet if a tad too much. The people stare at them, rare guests on their way to a place no
one in a sane mind would travel to, and no one asks, and no one begins a conversation.

Simply stares. Stares at Ray in particular.

One time, he thinks he imagines a pair of blue among them.

He feels it as Don barters for a price on the bed, on a glass of beer, and then another, and another, and
even Don's playful, drunk suggestion to teach him how to throw a punch "like a man" only
deteriorates them.

He feels them watching his every move as he lies on the edge of the creaking bed, eyes wide open,
searching in the dark corners for an intruder… It materializes in the form of a hand falling on Ray's
temple and a leg on his bent knees. The eyes blink at Ray incomprehensibly as he sighs in exhaustion
and shakes Don's limbs away from himself.

A giant lies near him for the insistence and the rumble of his snore right in Ray's ear cannot possibly
be of human nature. The stares scatter away, almost terrified of the sound, and Ray tries to fall asleep,
a break from his constant paranoia finally given to him.

…He wakes up, startled by pain in the shoulder, and barely blinks, and doesn't understand why
instead of stars he sees a wooden ceiling. He tries to sit down, supporting himself on his elbows,
limbs trembling from a short, unsatisfying nap, and raises an unimpressed brow.

"I'm not sharing a bed with you again." Ray states quietly, grating words, observing his companion
lying all alone on the bed, snoring, smiling so much, so widely his face turns into a grimace. Sitting
on the floor, absolutely baffled, Ray sighs and not so gently snatches a pillow from under Don's head.
It doesn't wake him up.

A pillow, not even that soft, probably filled with hay their horses must have been enjoying this whole
day, is tightly wrapped around Ray's head, pressed on his ears, muffling Don's snore, and for once he
doesn't care for the stares.

He just wants to sleep.

…He wakes up yet again, startled by a stark pain in the thigh, and, blinded by extreme rage, absolute
bloodlust, he doesn't care if someone stabbed him with a knife, is dragging him away to torture and
poison, he doesn't care, and he raises his unharmed leg to violently smash the knees of the one who
woke him, whatever colour their eyes are. A yelp, so loud it pierces Ray's eardrums through the
pillow, along with a thud of someone falling flat, so loud the wood under Ray's body nearly cracks,
wakes the lost Prince completely and this time, the disturbing stare belongs to him.

"Holy Mother, I'm so sorry for stepping on ya, but ya didn't have to hit me! My man, and I thought I
had anger issues! What the fuck!"

A thousand curse words Ray's learned from Don die on his tongue as he sighs, crawls on the bed, a
sour expression on his face, a palm rubbing his hurt thigh, and he throws a pillow in Don's face, turns
away towards the wall, and all so he couldn't notice Ray's shuddering from chuckles body, a grin so
wide his face turns into a grimace.

He figures that night he could have gone to the stables to lie on the hay (it wouldn't even make a
difference considering how uncomfortable their stay was) if Don ever became too much to bear. He
wonders after that night that he could have stayed under the endless furs in the wagon, yet now he
always lingers near Don's warmth. Under one blanket, one sky, one long, terrifying, howling night,
and it's so much easier to survive when the fury of the snowstorm is overpowered by Don's roaring
snore.

Ray knows that soon it will all be over. That soon Erlenwald will swallow him, hide him away, erase
his identity, and he will trade all that he has known for his Norman. For his freedom.

He tries not to regret it.

Don rarely wakes him up after their bed incident, and this morning (this far into the North, it's hard to
tell the time in the ever-coated darkness) Ray doesn't need this. Their wagon stops abruptly before a
massif made of trees that eats the world at its edges; the horizon and the sky, it lays claim to
everything it touches, and it yearns for more.

Ray stands before Erlenwald and feels the forest yearning for him.

"Are ya afraid?"

The lost Prince doesn't answer. The Northern Province has the most protected of borders, the Dark
Forest, the Erlenwald. Most books he read about it were written by the survivors of its claws or the
imaginative kind of people whose stories are no more than unnerving legends.

Ray knows them all by heart: these tales of snow that crunches most peculiarly for one steps not on
the snow but on the bones of people covered by it. The tales of white northern wolves—Ray shivers
violently and hugs himself at only a thought of them—known for their bloodthirst and the curse of
constant hunger that roam here freely—few survive in Erlenwald but them. The tales of the Alder
King of the Dark Forest who falls in love with kids, promises them toys, riches, and joy, whose love
abducts them, steals their souls with a kiss, and buries their lifeless bodies under the crunching snow
of Erlenwald.

Knowing all of it, logically, Ray is supposed to be afraid, but…

He nods the most puzzled of yes.

"It's not too late, ya know."

"For what?" Ray barely registers Don's suggestion, already making the first step towards Erlenwald.

Somehow… The Forest beckons to him. And it makes him forget.

"To stay. With me."

Words so soft, so shy, so clear all the same, of fear, of yearning, of devotion, they clear the haze in
Ray's eyes, they cut the wooden branches on Ray's wrists, and for a second Ray freezes in a panic of
freedom, of unimpeded choice. He doesn't… doesn't want the Forest

to ever let him go.

"I can't, I-I promised. He is…"

He is waiting for me.

The forest rustles, the snowstorm and the winds bend the trees, and something huge falls in the
distance, and someone screams, and someone dies, and someone's buried under the ever-piling snow.
Ray cannot hear it for the Forest murmurs in his ear, complimenting him, adoring, promising him the
life of his dreams, of eternal salvation in the blue-sky, something he's lost, something he never could
have even asked for, the unconditional, the unfeasible.

Him.

All for the right choice.

Yet the Forest knows that there was never any choice.

"The Northern King's one lucky fellow."

"What do you mean?" Ray breathes out cold instead of words and doesn't recognize his own voice.

"He has ya."

The haze is back. It's an unpleasant kind. It makes his knees wobble, it dries his lungs, it blinds him so
completely it erases the Forest, it paints his cheeks with pictures of frost, of indecision, of wanting to
stay.

It trips him to the side, it makes him turn around, it leads him, it crashes him full-force into Don's
chest, it hugs, it keeps the door shut, it wants to listen to the joyous yell so as not to hear the
caressing, the insane murmurs, it tugs, it ties, and begs to make a decision for him.

Yet the Forest knows that there was never any choice.

"I'll miss you." Ray barely whispers in Don's shoulder and means to confess,

I'm sorry.

An awkward bump on his back, a hand that barely hovers over him and bumps him soothingly again
as if Don is afraid to touch back, as if he's never dared, as if he's unworthy, as if he doesn't know what
he ought to be doing, what he ought to be saying to a person who's hiccuping wet snowstorms on his
shoulder, to a person he doesn't truly want to miss.

Don lays his hands on Ray's shoulders, gently pushes back, silently astounded by the stubborn
resistance, and wipes Ray's wet, rapidly turning into ice, cheek with a feeble grip of a fist. The
weakest punch. The weakest him.

"I hope we'll meet again. Ray."

A shattering step back. A stare, a confession, fragile vulnerability, a crack, a frail, wretched from the
heart permission to leave. An open mouth, a gasp that leaves the cloud of fog instead of words,

You've never said my name before.

Ray is almost running and doesn't want to wonder if his legs are carrying him so fast because he is so
desperate to see his Norman once again.
Or because the stars in Don's eyes, of which he is not even aware, will draw Ray to him if he turns
around, if he stumbles, if only thinks of him.

And Ray will change his mind.

The torture of a choice is not long-lasting.

The Forest doesn't let the memory of him survive.

It closes the branches behind his back, a shut jaw, a hiss from its lungs hits Ray in the chest, takes off
his hood, whistles in his ear a song of terror, of malice, of at long last; it rips the pieces of him, it bites
and chews him, the hurricane of snow eats at his face, an open wound, it pierces the dark red of the
meat, and he's treading, bent knees and back, bowing to the Forest, and he's hiding his face, and he
sees nothing but the snow under his feet, and he's screaming and falling to the side when something
chrunches under his feet, and he's rubbing his face for the sound is of a broken bone, and the wind has
surely reached him, and it is tearing him apart, yet he is safe, and he's covering his face again, and
looking through the eye slits he sees it, he sees it, and his hands and knees burn as he crawls to escape
it, and the ever-piling snow mocks him, tangling him, claiming him, sipping blood from his joints like
the most exquisite of wines, and his back hits a bark of a tree, the branches giggle above him, and
they stretch to caress the tips of his hair, marveling at him, and it's still there, and it is staring, it's
pointing at him, it's promising he is the next,

the bony hand of a human gnawed by the white northern wolves.

Wolves.

A howl.

Prolonged, earth-shattering, scaring away the branches that slither to crack Ray's neck, commanding,
furious, closer, closer,

breathing the same air.

Ray's head snaps to the side.

The bony hand is pointing at him.

He has long forgotten it.

The. Wolf. Is. Here.

He has never left.

Towering above him, the King of the Forest, spotless fur shining blinding white, a stare so deep, so
creeping, and so human, he bows his head, he takes an ever closer step,

He shows his teeth of bloody red.

Ray recognizes him.

The wolf who killed his Father.

A stare of cyan, of hollering screams, of pleas to save himself, of stones tarnishing, sinking into his
back as he fell, as the blood from the wolf's fangs drip, drip, dripped on Ray's neck, the smell of
Father and of death,

and Ray is plunging the knife into the wolf's heart.

Hands shaking with rage, world trembling and tilting to the side as the wind screams and pushes him
violently into the gluttonous, munching snow that grabs and chains for him not to make another
foolish move, and he has missed again!

"I thought I killed you! I KILLED YOU, HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!"

The wolf stares at him silently, eyes of such consciousness, they almost reply to him with an answer
he doesn't want to hear, eyes so disturbed, so pained, of such torment, Ray screams for the
hallucination to evaporate,

and it does.

The wolf runs away, leaving blood stains from the torn-open front left leg on the pristinely white of
the snow.

The wind covers his trail, his loyal stooge. Yet the blood on Ray's knife is still there, and he smells it,
reassuring that he is real, that he is not insane, and he grabs the snow in his palm, grounds himself,
and shudders as the smell overwhelms, as it gags him, of metal, herbs, and death.

The trembles akin to that of delirium tremens twist him into the form of a dying tree of the Erlenwald,
making him one with it, as he's trying to stand, as he's trying to walk further, in the opposite direction
of the wolf, as he's trying to convince himself that

he has to stay alive.

The Forest couldn't care less.

It wants, and it will have him.

It trips, it mocks, it lies, it mixes up the paths, it walks him in a circle, it clenches his heart and laughs,
it watches him fall and crawl, it counts the minutes 'till his death and cracks his fingers one by one, it
whispers sweetest words, it kisses his ear, it toys, it loves, it worships him.

Ray doesn't breathe and yields his life.

The Forest shrieks and counts,

It stretches its branches and holds him by the jaw.

Its wind licks the last drop of colour off his face.

It talks to him and speaks its name, the last he'll ever hear.

My sweetest Prince, the name of mine is…

It stops.

It dies.

He breathes again.

A harsh intake of frozen air, a horrid cough, a restored life.

A gift.

But why?...

A sound that crashes the worlds, that splits them open, that kicks Ray in the gut, a sound that tears his
ear and soul, that makes him regret the Forest ever let him live.

A swish of an arrow darting past his head.

Another reason 'why' grazes his leg to meat the snow devours in an instant, the sweet red droplets of
him the Forest wasn't allowed to savour, and Ray is sprinting on his fours, not able to stand up,
another reason flying past him, and he slumps against a massive tree, biting a lip to a bloody mess not
to hiss from pain, don't notice, don't notice, the blood spills from his wound fusing with the snow, and
it's red, red, red, red numb fingers, a red swish of an arrow, red life, red everything, and white, white
sounds, white cold, white death, white nothingness.
"You are a bloody moron!" A guttural, wheezy shout like thunder shakes the Forest to the ground, no,
not the hallucinations again, not now, not here, not him. "It's not a fox, you absolute imbecile, it's not
your prey, what the hell did you do?!"

"I did what I was supposed-"

"Another word, and I swear I will kill you for treachery, you-"

The voice comes closer to Ray, and he presses to a tree like a dark shadow or another corpse, and cold
tears freeze his cheeks, and he cannot bite a lip no more, teeth are brittle pieces of ice, mouth
uselessly opened, the blizzard taking away Ray's soul with each gust of wind, please, go away, go
away.

Someone falls from above, a loud thud on the snow right near Ray's knees, and he scatters away,
drags his legs closer to himself, closes his head with hands

Go away go away go away go away

"Ray, Ray, Ray." The same hoarse voice calls him through the thick of the blizzard, so familiar Ray
screams, a holler to make him disappear, stop, stop, let him DIE.

Freezing hands, rough and dry, smooth his cheeks and screwed up eyes, an anxious touch, wipe his
endless falling wet snowflakes.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm here, look at me."

Ray sniffs and opens his eyes.

Red and white fall, worthless colours from a children's picture book, the cold stops pressing on him
when this agonizing being hugs Ray with the thickest and warmest fur coat, and it's so unfairly right
and merciful to finally die looking in the eternity of his blue eyes.

"You are the best nightmare I've ever had." Ray manages to confess before the comfort and safety,
familiarity, absolute love towards this illusion finally wipe the cold, the false warmth, the pain, the
tears, the world.

It wipes away Ray, leaving only darkness behind.

 The Journey: Alternatif
Chapter Summary

What if there was a choice?

Chapter Notes

So, hey! I totally didn't expect for this to come alive, but Helz, my friend (who wrote a poetic
epigraph for the ball chapter and a piano composition for the whole fic, check it out it, by the
way), really got into my DonRay, and she just went and wrote... an alternative ending for them.
Yeah, just like that. It's short, and I took the liberty to translate it and share it with you if you also
find them appealing as a couple. If not, oh well. Keep reading!
I'd consider it a fic inside a fic as it does go somewhat against my plot and character points, but
it's so beautiful I just could not help but... damn.

"I hope we'll meet again. Ray." Is what flies into his back.

And he stumbles over his own name. He stumbles and freezes at a transition point, a dozen paces
from his personal Purgatory. He is looking at the Forest. Looking at the Abyss, hidden behind the thin
whipping branches and the crooked trunks of the black trees. He knows there is no turning back, that
he will not return from this Forest. And if he does return one day, it won't be him. His double, who
will have passed through death, metaphorical or real?

He is playing peek-a-boo with fate itself, he stands on the edge of a coin, and if he takes a step, it'll
fall. And Ray understands that there is no side of it with which he can win. The world has carried him
forward since birth, the world has sealed his fate, his family, his curse. And perhaps, for the first time
in his life, he is making the choice himself. Standing on the edge of the Abyss, it's easy to be tempted
by the forbidden knowledge of the Eternity hidden in its depths, and Ray feels how much his head is
spinning, how desperate he is for oxygen.

He takes a step forward, just one step, the Abyss calling him to fall. "Don't turn around," it whispers,
"You read the ancient myths. Don't turn around, lest you lose your way to the one you've been so
longing for. Don't turn around, and accept the destiny the Goddess of your Goddess has set for you."

But the whispering winds are interrupted by the shrill neighing of a freezing horse, and Ray
involuntarily turns his head at the noise.

Don stands in the same place, steadfast and living, the wind ruffling the edges of his cloak, the snow
trying to hide him from Ray's eyes, but no snowstorm can bury the soft smile, no cold can freeze the
warm sparks of the dark eyes. Don doesn't come closer, doesn't ask or call, only tilts his head in a
silent question, "What is it that you intend to do, my Prince?"
And Ray cannot help but think. He cannot help but remember the hasteless days of their journey,
filled with laughter and mutual banter, the towns and cities in which, for the first time in his life, he
felt genuine freedom from expectation, from obligation. And Ray cannot help but remember the long
nights full of stories not found in books, woven together to keep his limbs warm and, quite ironically,
the loud snoring of his companion, whom, for some unknown reason, his demons feared so much.

"Don," he is calling softly, not fully aware himself of what he truly wants.

Don doesn't ask. He steps so gently, oh so closer, and stops at an arm's length, a faithful knight ready
to carry out any order. And it seems to Ray that if he had but asked to go with him now, Don would
have gone. He would have gone to his imminent death for the dusky forest would not forgive a
stranger without purpose. For they both know the North awaits but one.

The coin falls from the edge.

Ray does not even step—he falls forward, knowing he will be caught.

And warm hands close behind his back, cutting him off from the Abyss, pressing him tighter, holding
him, almost lulling him. Ray presses closer, and the voices in his head fade, allowing the thought that
first originated in his childhood, when the little Prince wandered restlessly through the unheated
corridors of the castle, seeking salvation from the loneliness that had settled deep within his heart, to
be exposed,

"I am so tired of this eternal cold."

...Please, help me help me please. I'm all but cracks coming from my very heart, taking hold of my
lungs so that I can no longer breathe, taking hold of my brain so that I can no longer think of anyone
but Him, taking hold of my flesh so that I dissolve in my delirium and in the blizzard that surrounds
us. Please, hold me tight, please, gather me back, please, love me enough to keep me warm in that
feeling, please, retain, please, guard my heart until I love you back...

It's selfish, it's so selfish to covet all this for himself as if he has any right to it, but he was spoiled by
Emma's gratuitous love. He greedily absorbed the warmth of it, of her, and in those moments when
she was around—it seemed that even the permafrost retreated fearfully from his bones.

Emma was my sun, Ray thinks, but you—you could be my fields. My summer night, flying in the
void. If I am with you, Ray thinks, the cold light of the stars will not dare reach me. If you love me,
Ray thinks, I might be able to love myself one day.

"We'll go to the South." Don whispers. "To those places where it never snows, to those lands where
the forests breathe life, to those countries where no one has ever heard yer name before."

Don doesn't stop talking even for a moment as he leads Ray away from the woods, as he settles him
on the horse in front of him, as he presses him closer, as he wraps him in his scarf. Ray wants to look
back one last time at that other road, but Don's broad back blocks his view, and the low voice and the
sudden wave of calm make his eyes close themselves.

And Ray lets go. He huddles closer, hiding from the northern winds, and lets himself be entrusted. To
Don, to the world, to his own fate.

The dark, dusky forest of Erlenwald stares after them. The gloomy forest has Eternity hidden among
its branches. The dusky forest has the eyes of a majestic white wolf, frozen immovable at the edge of
the forest. There, at the invisible border, delineated by Destiny and the snow storm, mercilessly
sweeping away the traces of horses' hooves.
 The North
Chapter Notes

A playlist as usual: Spotify or VK.

For this particular chapter I'd recommend The Stolen Child by CLANN (because I was writing
and humming along with it all the way through) and The Sacred Order by Peter Gundry (I
consider it a musical theme for a... character who will make their first appearance in this chapter.
Not to spoil anything :)).
If it's too much of a bother, you may always listen on repeat to a tailored for this fic piano
composition by Helz, btw.

A lot of lore-heavy discussions are happening in this chapter, though I believe I made them as
smooth and effective as I could (you'll eventually see where I'm going with all this new lore. I do
think I'm quite clever with how I tied it to the original TPN storyline). I also see that I've made
some crucial, creative touches to some of the characters' personalities. If you've come this far, I
hope you can forgive me for this frivolous thing. It'll pay off over time.

Trigger warning: dialogues and musings concerning prostitution. My friend advised me that I
should mention that the characters' views do not represent my own, and are written for complex
characterization and further development of said characters. Alright, I'm gonna touch some grass
now.

At the very end of the chapter you will find an illustration by my friend tiorino (along with a
bonus)!

Enjoy some sweet romance at last!

(While you still can.)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It’s surprisingly loud and comfortingly warm in hell. The people in charge argue over his person, and
the words do not make sense. Then again, Ray shouldn’t understand the heated speeches of the
devils.

"...Who is he, Boss? Why is he so important that you have to-"

"I do not have to answer you." One of them replies in a voice so angelic and warm that Ray wants to
open his eyes and look at him. Instead, he’s pressed further into something hot and hard, and it’s so
achingly familiar, like a forgotten home or a deep dream Ray isn’t going to wake up from. "And I do
not care what my Mother ordered you to do. She’s not the Queen of this land anymore, and you have
to listen. To. Me. I hope it’s the last warning, Cislo."

"It’s true, Cislo. You’re too hard on the boy. I can understand His Majesty—he looks like a kitten."

A low hum of agreement sounds from another direction.

"Come one, you guys! This is ridiculous! Boss, you have to think this through."
The angel ignores him, but the position of Ray’s body changes, takes form again as if it's an answer of
its own. Gentle hands take the back of his neck, supporting the weight of his head, and cold, rigid lips
slowly, painfully kiss Ray’s eyebrow. They linger and kiss again, and again, and again, a milliard of
short touches as if one, ten, a hundred is not enough, as if Ray’s face is the only source of warmth in
the endless desert of snow.

Ray recognizes these lips.

If Norman is here, it cannot be hell.

It must be heaven… What did Ray do to deserve this? He opens his eyes to look at him, his own
angel, his saviour, wants to confess something deep from the bottom of his very soul, but instead, he
whispers, surprisingly firm, almost a demand,

"Now, do that on the lips."

A loud boom of laughter explodes somewhere behind them, a nervous kind of amusement,
expressions of approval, praises on bravery, but Ray doesn’t hear them: he looks at the way Norman’s
blue eyes squint a little bit in warming affection, and the lost Prince rolls his eyes when Norman
kisses him on the cheek, almost but not quite touching the corner of his lips, and whispers, a
reassurance meant only for him,

"Later, my fire."

"You are not fair." Ray whines, matching Norman's whisper, not quite sure if it’s about a new
nickname, the lack of a proper kiss, too many overwhelming tiny kisses, or a little bit of everything.

"You are not fair." Norman cuts Ray short and tucks him closer to the warmth of a solid chest again.

The reality gains colours and shapes the more Ray recovers from alluring delusions of Norman’s
kisses and his blue eyes. A couple of facts state themselves plainly: they are riding on a massive white
horse, one saddle supporting the two of them, in the land full of snow, nearing enormous, reaching the
sky, gates with hundreds of guards; a huge warm coat covers Norman and him completely, chests
pressed firmly together for warmth; Ray can slowly, sneakily, experimentally explore Norman’s back
with his hands, play with the hem of his knitted shirt, teasingly, barely touch the bare spine with cold
fingertips, and Norman will make a hitched sound, half-pleasure, half-flinch, yet still allowing Ray to
do whatever he pleases.

Finally, the dead Prince wonders, "Am I alive?"

"No shit, kid." An unpleasant voice sounds from behind, and a person rides on his smaller horse
further alongside Norman’s steed to speak with Ray directly. “And I tried to kill you so hard! What
perseverance!”

"And I told you to shut your trap, Cislo." Norman hisses low, the reverberations of his voice shooting
through Ray’s whole body.

"I got you the first time, Boss. A mistake. Sorry, kiddo." A man whose name is apparently Cislo
smiles at him, and it looks fake, too sweet, too nice. A hidden knife. "I will alert the guards we’re
coming in."

Ray’s brows furrow, a buzz of suspicions clogging his mind as the man rides away and the guards
raise their bows in alarming synchronization.
He detaches himself from Norman's body enough to look down at his own leg, bandaged perfectly
and securely; he sees red spottings of blood over a place of the wound and scowls in mild concern: it'd
probably be burdensome to walk in this state…

"What happened in the forest?" Ray asks, loud enough for other Norman’s companions to hear, and
straightens, hoping it is quicker to find an answer in Norman's eyes.

Norman presses his lips into a thin line, looking ahead, refusing to meet Ray’s gaze, and another
person with a strange scar across his bald head and a forehead rides along to answer,

"As Cislo said, a mistake. He mistook you for a fox. We do not see many brave travelers crossing the
Erlenwald and my deep admiration for you to that, young man. My name is Vincent, I am a part of
His Majesty’s Minerva personal army."

Minerva… Right, Ray should be careful when addressing him.

"I’m Ray." The Prince nods, still not convinced. "What did I hear about your Mother, Your Majesty?"

His Majesty does not answer. Instead, another person, face wrapped fully in scarves save the slits of
their eyes, rides closer, silently, heavily asking for permission in Norman’s eyes. Norman shakes his
head a barely visible no.

“His Majesty’s Mother recently warranted a decree to kill every person that did not request a visit
beforehand in the Erlenwald. The city cannot contain any more refugees, you see.” Vincent continues,
his speech is flawlessly smooth, a plausible reason Ray finds hard to believe. “But His Majesty was
warned that you would arrive, so you shouldn’t count.”

Ray mutes Vincent in his mind, reading his character well: a schemer who would buzz his head with
too much information so he would abandon his doubts. Annoyance overpowers him and instead, he
watches another person, the one who didn't say even a word up until now, riding close to Norman, and
Ray sees their form twitch, irregular and taught to be well-concealed, and their eyes constantly check
on Norman. A weapon that doesn't know anything but waiting for its master's order and delivering.

"I beg your pardon." Ray tries to say, to attract their attention. "May I know your name?"

A person turns their head to Ray, agonizingly slow, so focused and tense their twitches cease. The
eyes show nothing but incomprehension and something hurt, something vulnerable, something
making Ray's heart shrink and mutter under its beat to help, help, help them.

"He is called Zazie." Vincent gets a word in edgewise. "Unfortunately, he does not speak, though he
for sure understands you and can communicate through writing. Our humble Majesty taught him so."

"You taught a mute how to write? And read?" Ray asks, absolutely astounded, staring Norman in the
eyes, and smiling in delicate pleasure when he notices Norman's cheekbones redden noticeably.

"He is my friend. And a capable student at that. It was nothing major." Norman says and clicks his
tongue, looking at Zazie, almost demanding his support, yet Zazie's body shakes as if in a fit of
giggles, and Norman bristles, irritated.

"Our humble Majesty!" Vincent exclaims and laughs, loud and delighted.

"You're insufferable, all of you. I order you to stop!" Norman says, half-joking; Vincent laughs only
harder, but Zazie freezes like a well-trained dog, and Ray watches Norman scowl, all merriment
sucked away from him.

"Be it so, we are nearing the gates, and so I recommend you to apply necessary precautions, Your
Majesty." Vincent says in his usual strictly polite tone.

"You don't have to remind me."

Norman sighs and takes a black piece of cloth from the pocket of his pants. Looks at it, empty,
clenches it in his fists, wrinkling it, a galling thing, and raises his head to study Ray. Tilts it, traces his
lost Prince's features, stopping longer on his eyes running from the sheer attention and on his
trembling from cold lips. Norman inclines lightly, lays palms on Ray's thighs, mirrors the shape of his
slightly opened mouth, and, forcing him into eye contact, shuts the door, locks it, throws away the
key, and swallows a nervous gasp from Ray's lips. Stops at a mere two centimeters between them and
memorizes him again, closer, longer, grinning in his face, encompassing him, replacing the world,
asking, where would you look now?

And leans away to cover his eyes with a black mask. Ends this goodbye kiss with their eyes.

Ray gulps audibly, eyes popping out of their sockets, and feels a smoldering wish to lie down. Or take
a bath. Or all at once.

Norman grants him one, at least, for he inclines back, presses Ray closer to his chest, and covers him
to the ears with furs like a plaid.

Almost hiding him from view.

The gates move apart before their little group, and Ray opens his mouth at the view: forever of the
night and snow, closed off for any intruder, Norman's home, domain, and birthplace, of everything he
was and will be, Ray has always dreamed of running away from the castle of Sachevia, traverse the
land, and vociferously declare before these very gates that he has come to finally meet his Norman.

In his dreams, influenced by daring stories of romance, it would be so; yet when the gates open and
everyone enters the city, he pales, skin ashening to an unhealthy grey, and instinctively melds with
Norman's body.

He notes everything all at once: the doors crashing behind them with a dull, cracking sound, the only
way out; Cislo, sneezing loudly, all baritone and booming of his voice, joining their group, the eerie
silence muffling him, a choking scream into a pillow; an abnormally huge dome in the center of the
city, emanating a strange, blue, freezing light; a church, not as massive but certainly as imposing, at
the foot of the dome, and people, faces, ghosts without a blink of thought in their minds, without a
drop of blood in their bodies exiting out of their houses, one and the same, and in a spontaneous and
dreadfully united crowd, following one another to this church. Not paying their group any mind as if
it's them who are the ghosts.

He notices it all and even manages to get surprised when the temperature in the city rises a solid few
degrees; he writes it off as the influence of Norman's warmth and the stone walls, encircling the whole
town, repeating the form of the dome, thwarting the harsh northern winds.

A quick thinker, Ray, his mind, his entire being still into petrified dust, waiting to be blown away and
murdered, because the only thing he sees is her.

A statue of a woman. Regal, taller than most men and women, towering above the whole crowd and
their group, holy, white, her clothes, her hair, her skin, her eyes, the marble of her, disturbingly
detailed, she seems alive, with her open collarbones, chiseled legs, exposed, ready to come down
from the pedestal, hands folded in prayer, and eyes looking up above.

…Hands, one clenching something round in its fist, a palm so big it almost conceals the fruit entirely,
and another covering the first.

…Eyes that do not look up above in prayer, purity, or innocence.

Ray swears they stare at him. In curses, accusations, and disdain. A heretic, a monster, a worthless
being, her whisper violates Ray's mind, and he squeezes his temples, almost ripping hair, and his
hands stretch to rip Norman's mask from his eyes and cover hers.

Ray gasps, the world narrowing to her and her alone, succumbing to her grip, and on the pedestal, he
sees the first letter of her name.

L.

For a second, he wants to yield for she seems so… familiar.

"We'd have to separate from here." Vincent says, snapping Ray out of his daze, explaining to him as
Norman and Cislo turn their horses to ride along the side of the part of the city bordering the walls.

"Do you have some business to attend to?" Ray asks, not understanding what he is talking about
after…

"No, not quite." Vincent answers with a polite, patronizing smile as if telling a kid that they shouldn't
be tearing the pages from a hundred-year-old book. "Zazie and I are not… allowed to take this
shortcut to the castle. We are not of the right status to safely traverse the lush district and its border."

Ray hums, a low sound, concerned, overflowing with unasked questions, and as he decides to mind
his business, the only word he utters fails to hide his anxiety, "Alright…"

"Warm journey to you, Your Majesty, Cislo. Ray."

Vincent, going around the statue and not giving it a single glance, rides away into the crowd of
people, and it swallows his horse and him like a flock of plague rats that do not leave even bones after
their feast.

Zazie doesn't ride away, however; he stares at Ray, eyes droopy and sharp, for a long while and, not
finding an immediate threat to his King in the form of this strange young man, content, leaves them as
well. Before the rats could devour him, he stops near the statue, inclines towards the ground with his
whole body on the saddle, so wooden a figure, so low a bow that he could fall over from his horse,
and then he cowers, recoils as if struck by a kick of her exposed leg, a whip of her presence, and
rushes to ride away.

Their fate is one the same, nonetheless, for Ray loses sight of them both and shivers in disgust,
fending off paranoid, gruesome images; Norman tucks him close to the chest, under the furs, and
strokes his back, probably thinking Ray is unaccustomed to harsh temperatures.

Yet the first thing Ray notices when the scenery changes to dazzling buildings, some crude and
distasteful, of a massive amount of money and no sense of beauty, others refined, architectural
masterpieces, to properly dressed, at times too much so, people riding in intricate carriages, to clean,
snowless roads, the first thing he notices is how hot it is here. Immensely, drastically, as if the
temperature has suddenly risen a solid ten degrees as soon as they traversed the invisible 'border'
Vincent was talking about.

Ray thinks that maybe he's had a concussion or got used to the warmth of Norman's chest yet he
observes the rich people around them, going somewhere in one direction in that same disturbing
crowds, glorified rats with cleaner and sharper teeth, and sees them all wearing lighter clothes,
expensive jackets, leather gloves, long, silken dresses…

He gulps and manages to ask only, "Where is everyone going?"

"To the service. Most people attend every morning to bask in the glory of the Grand Priestess. You
saw the statue of her. She also…" Norman clicks his teeth at the very last word for Ray to furrow his
eyebrows in sticky, thick suspiciousness.

Ah. That statue.

"Happens to be your Mother?" Ray continues after him as if this prolonged pause didn't even occur.

Norman nods, wary and slow, and Ray reads the gesture all too well:

he wasn't supposed to know that.

"If this is urgent, we should attend too." Ray says, light-hearted and genuinely worried in tone, yet his
muscles tense, betraying distrust.

What are you hiding from me?

"I want to take care of you." Norman murmurs in Ray's ear, evaporating all the thoughts, enchanting
with a whisper, with the words, promising, and painting Ray's skin with colours only Norman could
wield. When he kisses the crown of Ray's head, the lost Prince in his arms loses the meaning of doubt.
"We'll go tomorrow."

"Alright. I can't wait to meet your Mother."

Norman's chest shakes, and a strange chuckle, strangled, nervous, almost hysterical escapes his lungs
only for Norman to cut it short, kill it, and state as if nothing happened, "It's a mutual feeling."

Out of nowhere, a grunt sounds from their left, pretentiously annoyed and deliberately loud, and Ray
freezes, ashamed as if someone caught him doing something particularly unsightly.

Right… He is riding with them.

"I'm gonna go have some fun right damn now or I swear I'll catch a disease just being near you two."
Cislo raps out and puts two fingers over his stuck-out tongue. Norman cannot see him, obviously;
immediately understanding an implication, Ray separates from Norman's body, sits straighter, and
locks Cislo in an eye contact which the man avoids in an instant.

"What outstanding ignorance. You have far more chances at 'catching a disease', as you called it,
wherever you're going, Cislo. I trusted you are smarter than that." Norman says, a casual tone, spread
shoulders, and hidden venom, a threat, bared teeth, and Cislo takes notice of nothing. Or pretends not
to.

"Nah. Your doctors check on them too often for 'em to spread a thing. On that note, I hope you'll join
me, Boss, after you drop that luggage." Cislo says and rolls his eyes in Ray's direction.
What is your fucking problem? Ray wants to say, on an extreme edge, opens his mouth, clenches his
fists, rumpling Norman's clothes, and manages to hiss the first word only for Cislo to boom,
interrupting, outvoicing,

"New boys await just for you!"

And riding into the distance, laughing uproariously, and Ray bets feeling so damn great for leaving a
symbolic cloud of dust under his horse's hooves right in Ray's face.

"What a brute, what the hell have I done? Huh?" Ray growls, enraged out of his mind, picturing
daggers and arrows flying and piercing him dead.

"Some tough vocabulary you've got there." Norman whispers, conducting Ray's mood to a softer
decrescendo, holding his clenched fists and stroking his fingers, one by one, from nails to a wrist,
slow, soothing. "He just… I suppose, doesn't open easily to people. You just need to show him you're
stronger, and he'll bend and respect you."

Ray narrows his eyes, reigning a kicking, still prickly part of him that wants to mutter, a challenge,
I'm not an idiot, that wants to interrogate Norman for why exactly this piece of human meat shot at
him and now treats him as if he stole a heart of his if there ever was one.

Yet bitterness dissipates when Ray's fists finally unclench, surrendering under an incessant attack of
tenderness, and Norman interlaces their now free fingers.

Ray wonders what Norman's eyes would have shown him: offence, guilt, apologies, answers? The lost
Prince sighs, breaking their bond to hug Norman again and let him hold the reins, left with nothing
but the cold indifference of the mask and a jarring, unpleasant thought in his mind…

"Boys?... Are you… allowed to woo… people of your gender?" Ray muses, recounting Cislo's words,
trying to find what specifically got him so uneasy.

That must be so nice… to love whoever you want and not get killed for what you are or that you are
ruining whole countries' relations with only your feelings you didn't even choose.

Not that Ray thinks of anyone in particular in such a situation.

"I'm not expected to raise an heir. If I do, great, if I do not, all the better for me." Norman answers
promptly as if he was already expecting what Ray was going to ask of him.

"Then why would you propose to Gilda?"

"A distraction, obviously. As I have already told you, I came to see you."

"I…" Ray says after some time and bites his lip, finally identifying and suppressing deep within what
infuriated him in the first place.

"I know what you're thinking about." Norman says and Ray raises his head inquisitively. Do you?
"The existence of such institutions is immoral, but I firmly believe one cannot stop the whole…
demand for it. I saw the poverty of your city, of people desperately begging to be used for money, and
I swore to control my people in order to protect them."

Ray listens to him, to his even, almost commanding voice, developed after years in a governing
position, after years of making impossible decisions, and feels the same years leaving grey ashes on
his own hair for abandoning his people, for never even acknowledging their dilemmas, for always
thinking of himself when he could have helped.

Maybe it was right of him to die there.

Maybe it was justifiable of Mother to kill him.

"If you have better suggestions, I will listen." Norman says, thinking the sudden silence a sign of
Ray's inner protest.

"I have never thought about it." Ray answers, honest, and wishes he could add something to the
discussion apart from a naive thought that this must not exist in the first place.

"Of course, you haven't."

A fact… but it stings.

"Don't think I haven't noticed your buried question." Norman suddenly says in such a tone his voice
strokes Ray's hair and neck. "I do not attend these establishments and quite frankly prefer some…
commitment in my partners."

Jealousy, buried deeply in a cemetery of Ray's feelings, a secret victim, a parent of his rage, rots and
is reborn in something shy, close, and adoring when Norman takes his hand again by the wrist and
blindly kisses the tips of his shaking fingers, slowly, missing, accidentally stroking phalanges.

The world swims, from relief, light dizziness, and suppressed sighs, and Ray's eyes search to find a
distraction, anything but him showering the hand with kisses, anything but the view and the feel of his
lips against the skin, come on…

"I've been wondering." Ray blurts out, forcing himself to focus on an object that's been visible from
every part of the Province. "Is the dome in the center of the city the famous Holy Library?"

"Do you know much about it?" Norman asks and releases Ray's hand to encircle his waist as if in a
dance.

Frankly, Ray knows everything regarding the Holy Library. He gobbled all information about the
North, history, symbols, Kings, traditions after Norman left him, but…

"No. Not a thing." Ray replies, blunt and abrupt, his voice drowning in the warmth of Norman's
embrace, and he presses an ear to Norman's chest, closes his eyes, and lets deep calm, utter serenity,
and Norman take full control of his limp body. "You can tell me all about it."

Norman doesn't have to know that.

It would be so good to bask in his voice.

Long, rough fingers caress the tips of Ray's hair, slowly feeling their way up Ray's skull; they drown
themselves in the black, tarry pools, lightly stroking cheekbones, massaging the top of the forehead,
methodical, thorough, pulling at the roots of the hair, gentle, sweet, not enough, letting go.

Norman listens to Ray's breathing, to his even, slowing down heartbeat, and speaks in a low tone as if
recounting a fairy tale to his tired, lost Prince.

And his tired, lost Prince sees a dream, weaving with the flowing in the darkness words.
"Once upon a time, the Goddess created all. The sky, the land, and the fruit of her own flesh and
blood, the people. Yet her Divine Plan would prove to be devastatingly worthless had she not created
the Knowledge. Of all that was, of every piece, of every soul, of all the love, of all her work and
struggles, the ever-existing, eternal place that would harbour Her purpose. Comprehending the danger
of the Absolute Knowledge to her children, she kept it hidden in the coldest part of her realm,
surrounded it with the woods of Erlenwald, and covered it with a dome."

Ray sees the pictures of Her, exaggeratingly big and paranoid, creating the Knowledge out of Her
forgetfulness, randomly abandoning it in the middle of nowhere and hiding it under a bush of ice,
hoping no one would notice her mishap. His eyebrows wrinkle when the Goddess shapeshifts again,
now a Mother of all, disappointed in her kin, sighing, closing her eyes and sealing away the ultimate
gift, knowing the consequences of it, unable to destroy it, and in Her face, he sees his Mother's
features.

"Yet we discovered it. The first people who founded the Province declared it their Holy Mission to
protect the Knowledge, to oversee it, and never take claim of it for if they themselves abused and
manipulated the Knowledge, however could they defend it? Henceforth, the Northern King is picked
not by heritage but through the symbolic Duels; the strongest, the wisest, the quickest wins, and his
duty first and foremost is to protect the Knowledge and its vessel, the Holy Library."

This whole story is ridiculous, Ray muses, giggling in his sleep, yet still imagines in his mind what it
would be like to walk between the bookshelves containing each and every story, both real and
imaginable, to seek the Absolute, to promise to himself to read every book until his last breath and
only to find out on a death bed full of scrolls and smell of old paper that the books will never, ever
end.

He pictures the Duels and his little, twelve-year-old Norman fighting the King, his own Father, and
winning, deceiving, deft, with the same moves a younger Norman used on him, incorporating some
from Emma, and Ray imagines himself there, in awe, struck, running to him, congratulating him,
leading him away, calming down his wailing (because how could you not wail when you killed your
own Father?), hugging him, and whispering, promising, begging, crying with him, I'm here, I will
always be with you, don't ever leave me again, I finally, finally, I'm in l…

"Ray."

A potent smell of hay, wood, and Norman, here, real, hugging him, wakes Ray up, overwhelms him,
and makes him gasp as if in a horrendous effort to breathe again.

He doesn't ask whether he was talking in his sleep.

"Where are we?" Ray asks, barely lifting a head from Norman's chest to assess the unknown place
indoors.

"My personal stables near the castle."

Ray hums in acknowledgement and, in an intent to hide his embarrassment that he fell asleep on
Norman’s chest, withdraws his hands from behind Norman's back, breaking an embrace, accidentally
stroking the young King's sides, and stretches, slow, drawn-out, limbs quivering, and he exhales, low,
groans quietly, letting stiff numbness go.

"Did you do this on purpose?"

"What?" Ray sighs more than answers, blissfully dizzy from a good stretch, and in the following quiet
seeks a question in Norman's pressed lips, tense shoulders, and thighs (Ray immediately averts his
gaze to nervously check Norman's blindfold. Safe).

"Nothing." Norman answers on an exhale, listens to something in the distance, nods, and slowly, so
slowly as if his limbs have grown numb, unbinds himself from the shackles of the black mask. He
reveals the endless blues, looks at Ray, and blinks hastily as if blinded by him.

"It is nice to see you again." Ray murmurs and has to bite his palms with nails to restrict a desire to
cup Norman's cheeks and kiss his eyes. "Won't your horse fear you?"

"Ah, he's alright." Norman says, shaking his hair from the snow and adjusting a mask on his neck.
"It's a shame he's the only one of his kind who can look me in the eye and not flee, screaming."

"At least you have him."

Ray smiles, a gentle, kind gesture, reciprocated by something breaking in Norman's gaze. A crack, a
wonder, a question, an emotion Ray aches and fears to acknowledge, everything draws near as
Norman inclines his whole body further, presses their chests together for Ray's lungs to abandon their
job and his heart to beat a rhyme of ballroom waltz. This time, in this tiny stable where no one is
allowed to interrupt them, Ray leans away, curses his body to calm down, runs from the warmth of
him, from his eyes that stare, and seek, and tie, and toy, and devour, and own.

Norman stops pressing on Ray, smirks, and strokes his steed's mane.

"Yes. At least I have him."

A small whine from a horse, content and low, distracts Ray and brings him back to a reality where his
back is bent over a steed's neck, with Norman looming over him, replete, and deviously pleased.

"Don't move."

Before Ray can even imagine the possible scenarios that might unfold after these words, Norman gets
down from the horse in a blink of two seconds and disappears from view. A sigh of suppressed relief
escapes Ray's lips as he straightens on a saddle and watches Norman standing on the ground with
open arms.

"Come on. I'll catch you. It'd be painful to unmount with your injury."

"You ought to reassess your view of me, Your Majesty, if you think I can't handle myself." Ray says,
clicks his tongue, changes position to sit with two legs on the side of the horse, and puts his unhurt
foot in the stirrup.

A case closed, Ray relaxes, his back turned towards Norman, before bony hands grab him from
behind, and the world spins a little as Ray nearly falls to the ground, caught safely in Norman's arms.
Just like he wanted.

"This is ridiculous, Norman, what are you, my knight in shining a…"

Ray rumbles to cover the embarrassment, fidgets in Norman's embrace to escape even if it means utter
disgrace and a hurt tailbone, yet he suddenly stills as he notices something amiss. Norman's chest
rarely rises and falls under Ray's hands, his lips are pursed into a thin, if shaking, line, and the hands
holding Ray's shoulders and thighs clench him in an unhealthy, painfully stubborn grip.
Don't laugh, Ray convinces himself as his lips already tremble, barely covering a burst, he is trying so
hard, after all.

"No, no, sorry…" Norman says, carefully, slowly putting Ray to the ground. He hisses, voice toning
to a whisper, pales ashen white, and covers his left upper arm with a palm, trying to stop the sudden
fit of a tremor. "You'd have to lean on me… I'm sorry."

The former Prince still chortles at the extreme disappointment of a ruined fairytale flashed in
Norman's eyes. A loud burst turns into soft chuckles when Norman embraces him by the waist and
puts Ray's arm over his neck.

"It doesn't hurt that much. I can walk on my own, my strong knight, I promise." Ray teases yet doesn't
move away from Norman's warmth.

"Indulge me a tad. Maybe I want to hold you like that for a little longer." Norman whispers into Ray's
ear and kisses his bangs covering the bandaged part of it, pressing harder when his lost Prince shivers
and bites his lip.

Ray doesn't resist after that.

He is walking on clouds, swimming in the closeness, the warmth emanating wherever Norman
touches him. When they exit the stables and the northern wind once again creeps under their clothes,
he wishes Norman would grace him with a touch everywhere.

His wish comes true for Norman stops abruptly and presses Ray even tighter to himself, suddenly
tense, alert. Closer.

Ray doesn't immediately notice a man standing in their way, blending with the monotone of the snow.
So white, from his furs to his hair, to his eyes, so lacking any presence, so still, and frail, and almost
dead, he looks at them from head to toe, indifferent, bored, only for his languid, empty stare to stop
on Ray's wounded leg.

The next second, his eyes clear out from dullness, revealing pale green, and something animalistic,
raw, spiteful, repulsive destroys his unearthly handsome face with distorted marks. As he looks at the
position of their hands.

It is all gone when Ray blinks once, suppressing a violent shudder when ghostly, evaluating eyes meet
his gaze.

"Why would the glorious Peter Ratri grace the stables with his almighty presence?" Norman drawls,
sneering dripping from the perfect tone of his politeness, yet Ray's mind zooms in on a name. Ratri?
"Are you spying on me, perchance?"

"Your Mother was asking for your attendance at today's service." Peter states, cold, a face, no, a mask,
betraying an emotion of sadistic pleasure when Norman clicks his teeth and visibly deflates.

"Tell my Mother I will come tomorrow."

"With pleasure, Your Majesty."

Peter bows, appropriately low, with a white sneer, a dangerous beauty, familiar, spread arms, a fur
cape behind him reminiscent of a bird, and his void, last glance towards Norman's eyes tell Ray of
deceit, freezing contempt, and something Ray knows too well.
Of blame.

"Blasted hound…" Norman growls with such disdain in his voice that the reverberations of it go
through Ray's side and chest. "Don't come near him, Ray. Don't talk to him, ever. He is the worst kind
of human, and I won't let him…!"

"I did feel… a certain… animosity, that's true." Ray interrupts, uneasy, and thinks, to put it mildly.

"There are a few reasons I can't stand the thought of him, but it'd be mostly retelling to you a sappy
drama about my family."

"You know every little detail of a 'sappy drama' about my family." Ray says, nudging him playfully.

"Fine. He's my uncle. From my Father's side." Norman gives up, yet Ray still looks at him, not too
impressed, silently asking and? "What? You're smart, you can figure it all out."

Ray only notes a peculiar reluctance of his to speak of much regarding his family, smashes a
sickening desire to take offence, and persuades himself that everything is fine. Norman will tell him in
time.

In the ensuing, stretching silence Ray remembers and mulls over a name.

Ratri.

Minerva?
Ratri…?

A feeling of bitter, unwelcome nostalgia tugs at the roots of a wounded heart and pulls, watching them
tear apart.

He still misses her. Misses the pub, her embraces, her kind words.

He has never even visited her grave. Never even got to know how she died.

How she died…

Norman's relative?...

Right after he left.

Ray halts, freezes, tenses, eyes wide, pupils quivering, nails digging into Norman's shoulder.

"What's wrong, Ray?" Norman asks so gently, so worriedly, with a voice that can as well bend Ray in
whatever pretty origami Norman would want him to.

"Nothing, I think, I-I… I was wrong. My leg hurts a bit after all."

Of course, he is wrong. That's delusional thinking. How could his Norman kill someone? A woman?
When he was twelve years old? For what? Absurd. Ridiculous.

He has better things to do than to suspect Norman of things Ray cannot even fathom to prove.

Besides, it's… It's his Norman.

And his paranoia playing stupid tricks on him again.

It doesn't go away even as they enter the huge doors to the Northern palace.

The Sachevia castle was many things to Ray: a playground, a library, a family gallery, a prison, a
haven, a tomb, a harrowing cry in the darkness. The palace of the Verhs Empire, as well: a
masquerade, an embrace, a dance, a warm welcome, a splash of colours, tenderness in the midst of
hypocrisy.

Now, this… is nothing.

Empty.

Grey.

Windows showing nothing but white snow, walls without works of art, ceilings without chandeliers,
floors without carpets, long, straightforward, unending corridors without light, and the guards, made
of stone, without faces. Bowing before the King.

The only sound disturbing the dead place is the King's boots on the stone floor.

Life sans colour.

Ray doesn't react when they finally finish their trudge near two simple, identical doors, guarded by
two simple, identical pairs of stone soldiers.

"If you ever need me, you can come to my room anytime. You have a free pass, I've already alerted
the guards." Norman says, and Ray catches a disturbing thought.

Guarded just as securely as the King, living a door apart… Sweet but also strangely suspicious.

The room they enter is, as should have been expected, void of all warmth. A bed, a bedside table, a
big fireplace, already prepared by someone beforehand, huge windows covered by drapery. Ray tries
not to look severely disappointed by the impressive lack of colours, lack of the sun, lack of life.

He should think positively… Maybe he will ask Norman to decorate this place with bookshelves
(perhaps, this land has stories Ray has never heard of), open the curtains, draw something, anything
on the stone walls, and embellish this misery with artificial flowers.

When Norman helps lay Ray on the bed (remarkably hard on the spine, like lying on hard wooden
boards. He should ask for a mattress as well…), the lost Prince doesn't feel as miserable, completely
immersed in his plan of making this room (this palace, if Norman allows him) at least liveable.

The voice calling him draws him out of his musings, a creak of a bed alerting of Norman sitting down
near his legs, "Ray. Please, eat."

His guide to this place of utter grey nods in the direction of a bedside table, and Ray's sense of smell
explodes, mouth watering uncontrollably, when he notices, so absorbed in the atmosphere and
overwhelming emotions he didn't even pay attention to them at first, a huge bowl of broth and an
indelicate, rough around the edges metallic cup filled to the brim with steaming, hot wine.

Ray gobbles all of it, heat, welcome, care, coughs when the wine, a strange taste, strong, herbal, and
metallic settles in his lungs, and he sets aside massive pieces of meat in the bowl, drinking the soup
dry.
"Good?"

"Good." Ray replies, out of breath, wiping red droplets from the corner of his lip, and tenses at the
sudden aftertaste, suppressing a gag: broth, the most delicious one he has ever tried in his whole life,
still presses on his throat with a distinctive feel of meat, and wine, perhaps conserved for centuries,
leaves him with nothing but a flavour of metal from the cup and unsettling, bitter saltiness.

"Thank you." Ray still says, covering distaste well, and watching Norman's hand lie peacefully over
his bandaged injury.

Norman, noticing his gaze, a silent question, is quick to explain, "I also should treat your wound
better. I didn't have much time in the forest… Can I?"

Ray blinks and shrugs his shoulders, trying in vain to conceal his frustration. He doesn't even know
what he expected when Norman escorted him to his new room, flirted with him, and kissed him on
the corner of the lip, but certainly not… this.

Strange bitterness vanishes when Norman cautiously rolls up Ray's pants, careful not to graze the
bandage, and opens a compartment in a bedside table to take gauze, and… Ray sees something else,
something making his stomach flip upside down and cheeks turn an embarrassing shade of red.

He sees pencils, the colours of this universe, and a huge pile of paper.

Maybe it won't be so deplorable here after all.

For a long while, Ray watches Norman work his magic with the bandage on his wound. Expert hands,
careful undressing, polished, almost automatic movements, as if it is a routine for him, the thing
opposite, intimate, almost inappropriate for Ray. Norman's eyes are that of a diligent, clear-headed
healer, absorbed in his work, and his hands are delicate against Ray's flushed dark red from cold skin.

From a bedside table, Norman takes a cotton gauze, impregnated with a thick, creamy texture,
smelling strongly of herbs and Norman, and he warns, "This is a special mixture that will help you
heal faster. Can be painful and will itch for a few, but trust me on that: it's a miracle. My Mother's
invention. May I?"

Ray nods an absent-minded yes, more concentrated on the unintentional touches against his skin, on
the idea that it doesn't and shouldn't mean anything, that he is being treated, and he ought not to get
these kinds of thoughts, and-
hisses from pain, face distorted into a grimace, put forcibly into the real world again as Norman
applies a gauze, and the mixture burns him, the fire of it licking, scorching his skin and wound,
molding into it, eating and fixing his flesh.

"Sorry…" Norman whispers and offers a hand which Ray immediately, instinctively squeezes.

"That's brutal." Ray says, gritting his teeth, trying for his grip on Norman's arm to slacken.

This pain is somehow worse than an actual shot of an arrow grazing his skin to meat. Yet it passes just
as quickly as it came, leaving only trails of cold sweat on Ray's face.

"Do you always do that to yourself?" Ray asks, quiet, shocked. Worried. "When you get injured?"

"It… builds your tolerance for pain." Norman answers, and his words, distant, blank, sound as if they
do not belong to him. "Besides. It's actually helpful."
The grip on Norman's hand unclenches, and Norman sighs in deep relief for the worst has passed.

Ray isn't so sure for his worst is only just beginning.

"May I also examine your ear?"

Self-conscious, Ray glances out of the corner of an eye at his deformed ear, covered securely and
fully by black bangs, yet of course, Norman’s noticed. He always does.

Another nod, and the air stills in Ray's throat when Norman brings his face so close to Ray's ear that
his breaths tickle, caress, and kiss the lost Prince's skin. With eyes just as focused and hands as tender,
Norman brushes Ray's bangs, almost stroking them, and acts as a drawing pencil securing the long
fringe. Afraid to even move a muscle, Ray studies him, the feel of him, the breaths, the smell, the
eyes, the hands, like an amateur painter who saw a masterpiece in the entirety of Norman's form and
itches to recreate him.

"It's healed nicely." Norman states and doesn't ask where this wound came from.

And doesn't move away.

The Goddess only knows what would have happened next if something hadn't changed in Ray's body.
The little mosquitos, all the bugs that shouldn't survive in this land crawling under Ray's gauze, red
shivers, tiny torturers, pointed needles, and minuscule knives, Ray knows he shouldn't touch the
itching wound, that it's a bad idea, yet he still stretches his hand to rub the gauze lightly and comes to
a swift conclusion that he'd rather heal longer naturally than like this.

"Hey."

Norman catches him by the wrist and raises an unimpressed eyebrow, a stare under the painterly, thick
snow pins Ray's back to cushions, and Ray says, barely above a whisper, appalled by the itchiness that
has soothed with only his touch, "You shouldn't treat me as if I'm bedridden."

His face is an absolute reflection of Norman's expression, admonishment, and furrowed eyebrows, a
protective reaction, a cover to conceal shameful shyness.

He really shouldn't be enjoying this.

"I shouldn't. But I told you. I want to take care of you." Norman replies, and Ray has to wonder if he
can read minds.

A clear defeat, a raised white flag, nervous fluttering of eyelashes, the lost Prince sighs raggedly and
gives up when Norman presses Ray's palm against his cheek and murmurs, enchanting him, looking
in the eye, "Let me."

He would let Norman do whatever he wanted to him.

Ray mirrors him, bringing Norman's palm to his own cheek, dazzled by the glitter of the snow (of the
skin) under Ray's touch (under his light). He melts the cold, welcomes the approaching fever, and like
a person deeply, chronically sick, suffering from delirium and sweltering headaches, he so desperately
wants just a small, a tiny, insignificant taste of this cold salvation, of this medicine, of this snow. Of
his Norman.

Ray takes Norman's palm and covers his own barely opened mouth with it, brushing calluses with soft
lips.
Closes his eyes.

Tastes the sound of Norman's hitched breath.

Revels in the slight tremble of his hand on the lips.

Burns alive, surrounded by glaciers, and it dawns upon him.

You are my sickness.

Abandonment of thought, of health, of sanity, of life, Ray opens his eyes and watches Norman die
along with him as Ray, a touch so feather-light it must have tickled, licks him between the fingers.

Wields him all.

Norman.

"Ray."

If Ray's mouth wasn't closed, he would moan Yes to all the questions, urges, and demands, confess all
the sins he did or could have done, and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him already.

Yet Ray's mouth is closed, and all is silent bar the uneven breaths of Norman's tarnished, high soul.
Bar the door creaking open with a force it could break the hinges, bar the shatter of a spell on the
stone floor, bar the snap of a connection, bar a low, infuriated hiss from Norman's clenched teeth as
Ray puts his palm away from the lips.

Yet still intertwines their fingers.

"How do you do, kid…? You, Boss, too?!" The intruder booms, entering the chambers, oblivious to
the strain in the atmosphere, and Ray only has to sigh he came early enough not to witness anything
he shouldn't. "I guess it won't be a problem if you're here as well."

"Whoever let him in is hanged today." Norman murmurs under his breath, never intending for the
words to reach Ray's ears.

"It would have been nice if you knocked… Cislo." Ray says, wary, quiet, tense, analyzing.

"Any-yways." Cislo visibly rolls his eyes, and a sticky, vile guess forms in Ray's mind.

Did he interrupt them on purpose?

"I won't take much of your time. Just came to ask whether you'd like to participate in the Duels next
month? I thought, well, you know." Cislo drawls, contrary to his promise not to take much of their
time, and glances at Norman, a gesture Ray doesn't miss. "You're kind of useless here right now.
You're frankly a ballast on the neck of my King, yet the Duels would redeem this pretty little quality
of yours. Besides, they are fun!"

I've been here only for a day, Ray wants to defend himself, yet Norman, eerily silent up until this
point, beats him to it and asks, a strain in his voice, a strange tone of warning and well-concealed
dismay, "Did you come to piss me off, Cislo?"

"I'm not talking to you right now, Boss, a thousand excuses and bows." Cislo says, borderline
mocking, and Ray furrows his brow in a queer thought. How close is he to Norman, exactly, to be
allowed to talk like that? "Ray, was it? Are you in?"

Ray checks warily for Norman's reaction before saying weakly, uncertainly, "No, thank you."

"Why not?" Cislo bursts out, almost offended. "I'm telling you it'd be fun."

"If this would be so, as you call it, 'fun', why aren't you participating?" Norman says, slow, spelling
words, and his voice wavers dangerously, hiding a threat. "I didn't save him for him to die here."

"Then why did you…?!" Cislo shouts, bitter, furious, in the dark, and interrupts himself as he finally
takes notice of their linked palms.

Ray, awashed with a curse of self-awareness, breaks the connection of their intertwined fingers. An
abrupt gesture, a cut of a heated knife over a pale palm, a wish to communicate a silent apology
through their eyes, yet Norman isn't meeting Ray's gaze: he looks at his hand with a strange, soulless,
struck gaze, like a God who's lost control over his own world.

"Get. Out. Now." Norman growls, shows teeth, turns his head, hides his face with a palm from Ray, a
subconscious action, and Ray freezes as he watches Cislo stumble, trip over his leg, pale to an
unhealthy grey, the colour of this land's sky, and walk away.

Perfect obedience.

As Norman sighs and changes his tone to one of tender, open whisper, Ray doesn't meet his eyes.

"I'll need to have a talk with him… I'm sorry, my fire. It seems I won't be here tonight to guard your
sleep." Norman says, pulls Ray's palm towards his thin, rough lips, and kisses his Prince's fingers,
each millimeter of them, tips, nails, joints, veins, bruises. Ray shudders, forced to make eye contact
again, and feels his cheeks growing hot, and he reads it in desperate longing, at the bottom of
Norman's eyes: each caress of his lips is reparation for all the minutes, seconds, years they spent apart
from each other.

They lost the feel of time forever. Lost it in each other.

When Norman leaves, the endless dark grey and white, the furious howling of the wind accompany
Ray's falling asleep.

He tries not to imagine a giant tree out of a window, the scent of flowers, and the stars.

They are gone.

His home is Norman now.

The first night of his new life is dreams full of unsettling darkness, snow, and eyes pumping his blood
with foul horror Ray doesn't want to admit.

Norman wasn't lying when he promised the herbal mixture would be a miraculous cure for Ray's
injury.

As they ride on their horses ("A housewarming gift", Norman said, eyes already closed with a mask,
with a smile so genuine and bubbly he might as well have received the present himself, as he
introduced Ray to his new friend: a black horse with kind eyes, strong legs, and sharp reflexes. A
guarantee of freedom, of trust, and of something that made Ray avert his eyes in embarrassment at the
smile of his benefactor), Ray blinks sleepily, incomprehensible of the time and space. He might have
slept for four hours, ten, or twenty-four: the eternal dark grey of the northern sky tells him no
difference. Neither do people on the streets, heads bowed low, just like yesterday, so low Ray thinks
they also have fallen asleep. Nobody pays him any mind, the only black spot amid white and dirty
grey, and nobody cares for him or who he is.

The dream come true, Ray muses bitterly, for even granted the freedom, the stuffy, encircling,
warping loneliness does not go away.

A gloved hand covers one of his palms holding reins, and Ray doesn't flinch, does not have to turn to
see who it is. A feeling, warm, almost pathetic seizes him after an immediate surrender as he squeezes
Norman's hand and kisses it, fast, just a brush of wool on his lips, a whispered thank you,
unreasonably quiet for nobody would care, yet still, somehow too intimate to be shared for all to hear.

The humpbacks turn into proudly squared shoulders, the curse of the endless sleep is disenchanted,
the silence dissipates, the grey vanishes before the majestic golden; the temperature lowers, turning
saliva into icicles, the wind howls, bending horses' and people's knees, taking away their souls, and
some fall, and some start crawling the closer the crowd, the young King, and the lost Prince approach
the Holy Church.

Ray only saw it from afar yesterday, and now he has to lift his head, covering the eyes from the knives
of sudden blizzard, to appraise the full magnificence of it: so tall, so detailed, full of people, of life
Ray has sought unconsciously in every piece of this land, it is all here, in this center of all, in these
high steeples, murmured prayers, intricate vitrages telling of myths unknown to the foreign Princes, in
this belief, in unity, and infinity of meaning given by Someone Ray does not comprehend.

"We'll just leave them here?" Ray asks, low, afraid to disturb the holy atmosphere, when Norman and
he dismount near the entrance of the Church. He sniffs, trying in vain to breathe deeply, the frost
sticking to his lips, gluing them together, inside of his nostrils, clogging it dead, into his eyes, and he
wipes the crawling tears, each one turning into a snowflake.

What a horrid change of weather.

"They won't get cold." Norman says on the edge of shouting when the wind strongly blows, intent to
steal his words, and he presses a palm on the solid stones of the Church. He nods, and Ray does the
same. The warmth from them shocks Ray's whole body like a heated poker through the bones of his
unbending fingers, the capillaries of his unblinking eyes, and the veins of his still from dread heart.

"And they won't run away. Yours is a docile little thing, he'll never run away." Norman continues,
hums, and absent-mindedly takes off the mask from his eyes. Ray's mouth opens and closes, a
question that never left his lips hanging in the air, do you feel this safe here? "And mine is too loyal."

Norman opens his eyes for all to see, and nobody truly cares for him, no child, no horse. That being
true, Ray sees a shift in his posture, in hands he hides behind his back, disallowing for their fingers to
intertwine, in clenched teeth, and empty eyes; Ray sees his Norman disappearing.

The King and his guest enter the Church just in time for the last preparations before the service to
finish. A strange atmosphere, a strange rise in temperature; Ray shudders violently and for a second
wants to lie down on the floor, exhaustion and abrupt warmth pressing on his frozen eyeballs, yet he
tries to blink and find the source of the heat emanating from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the heart
of this blissful oven.
There's nothing. Not even one lit fireplace.

It might be the sheer number of people crowding the Church, Ray thinks, and the answer doesn't
satisfy him, yet for his sanity, he sticks with it. Almost all seats in the grand cathedral are occupied,
and many visitors lie on their knees, revering, almost trembling, on the hot floor; Ray studies them,
from their clothes, both extravagantly wealthy and horrifically poor, to their expressions, each in
perfect, disturbing synchronization telling him of devout, ecstatic worship. He also notices a familiar
man on the first row, bowing just as deeply, and a stifled, horrified gasp escapes Ray's lips, and Peter
Ratri raises his head just a tiny bit to see…

An instinct even in a dazed state, Minerva takes Ray by the forearm and leads him away, expertly
side-stepping kneeling people, to the furthest, darkest corner, keenly, unblinkingly observing an
impromptu stage, a massive vessel, a huge cup filled with wine on the center of it, and women,
unhealthily pale, standing in one perfect line behind it, dressed in sophisticated robes, open shoulders,
collarbones, and necks, and closed eyes with blindfolds, just like Norman's but white. A blank space
rips their consonance in between, and Ray does not have to wonder what or who everyone is waiting
for.

She comes in.

The Grand Priestess.

The name comes to Ray's mind in the silence of the dead world, the flawless, beautiful harmony of
sounds that makes him want to holler, and tear the fabric of his flesh, of this plane, and cover his ears,
and beg to kill him for this to stop.

Legravalima.

Higher than most men and women, diabolical beauty hidden under the white blindfold, she sings, her
voice strangely low, operatic, and looks at Ray, addresses him in particular in the strange, ancient
language he doesn't comprehend. Yet her song and her smile tell him of his doom. He looks around at
parishioners, at Norman, in silent, crawling despair to see in their eyes some form of explanation, the
same horror that strangles his neck, and finds only worship in their closed eyes and blissful lips. Her
song is truly their guide to Her abode, and the Grand Priestess' voice raises, accentuating Her wish for
Ray's demise.

The seconds, hours, years, centuries, eternities of her voice, of hell, of agony, and of beauty,
everything, unwavering, drowns in Ray's tears, deafens his sobs, and tugs at the strings of his mind,
the cruelest, the ultimate song for Ray to fall, to cease existing, to go insane, to kill himself.

When the Grand Priestess stops singing and encircles the cup with her abnormally long palms to drink
it whole, a wailing, desperate, deranged thought enters Ray's torn to scorched pieces mind.

This is not wine.

The choir finishes, the echo of Her song resonates again, stronger, a masterpiece of a voice, torturing;
the final high note strikes Ray again and again, and in the following dead silence he breathes heavily,
inhales the metallic scent of blood, shakes, falls on his knees, lowers his head, and waits for Her
sword to serve Her justice.

It is so quiet, and hot, and painful, and he cannot breathe, a grave sinner in Her Holy Church.
Even when parishioners start murmuring again, thanking the Priestesses for their holy service, quietly
leaving, Ray cannot stand up, the marble sticks to his skin, burning it to charred meat. He turns his
head slightly and sees Minerva throwing just a single glance at his figure, eyes of impartial, god-like
judgement. The King's attention is on the Grand Priestess in an instant. She doesn't even seem to
notice Ray anymore, another bug under her heel.

What is wrong with him?...

"Mother!" Minerva, His Majesty, always stoically, coldly proud, darts towards her and halts before
her towering figure, a clear desire to be loved and affectionate in his posture. He doesn't receive what
he wants. She bows her head to 'look' at him instead, her thin lips press together tightly, nearly
disappearing from sight, and Ray cannot read her emotions. Is that a smile? Displeasure?
Resentment?

Her long nails scrape Minerva's cheek, borderline affectionate, sharp as knives, almost drawing blood.
He is smiling, blind, religious adoration claiming his soul.

Ray's stomach churns with songs ordering him to die, and before death, his only wish is to throw up
from the smell of that all-consuming blood.

The endless drums of feet on the floor rape Ray's ear still pressed to the floor, legs stomping on his
spine, breaking his bones, each step is a crack, crack, crack, and even as he finds the strength to stand
and sprint away, his every move pounds the same in his mind.

Crack, crack, crack.

Fresh winter air freezes Ray's wet eyes, presses on his chest, forces it open, and Ray coughs, hard,
grating, almost suffocating from having too much freedom, too much oxygen in his lungs; he inclines
slightly to soothe rapid dizziness, breathes evenly, puts palms on his knees, and feels it.

From behind.

Her gaze.

Surrounded by parishioners, in the deep of the church, still talking to her son, even behind a white
mask, she stares at him. Curses him, burns his back with holes, desires to mark his spine with blood
on her nails until there's nothing left of him but the white powder of his bones, crumbled by her
believers' feet, and Ray screams, closes his mouth with a palm, just in time for only a tiny high sound
to escape, and he dashes, blind, knocking over people, falling on the snow, crawling, running,
running, running…

Until the black claws from the inside of her soul bristle, darkly amused, and let him live another day.

It is quiet in the place where his legs led him (where her claws led him?). Ray blinks once, twice,
exhaustion beyond all comprehension and phantom stark pain on his calf overtaking him, and he
sighs, wrapping himself up in furs tighter.

At least the blizzard has passed…

As he examines the unfamiliar place, his gaze is void of all curiosity, wonder, and hope for a better
life. Of course, his body would bring him here, of all places, to a reminder of all his mistakes, of his
cursed being, to an abode of those who would haunt his nightmares 'till the moment he would give up
and join them of his own will.
To a cemetery.

Ray looks at the small lumps of the snow, identical to one another, with the same crosses, fading,
incomprehensible names written on them, not even a single person to care, to put a flower on these
white beds of people's final slumber.

If flowers can even survive in this endlessly, despairingly cold land.

…Ray wonders, a tiny question, meaningless and empty, whether he would see the sun or the flowers
in his life ever again.

Yet everything falls away when the lost Prince notices Him.

In the heart of this misery, a King, an Overseer, a statue of a man stands there, bowing his head low,
one huge wing stretching behind its back, the other nearly visible, of lines, twigs, ashes, and sorrow,
and a man beckons Ray near, a tormentingly familiar whisper into his mind to come closer, to
recognize, to understand, to fall, to sacrifice, to give up.

"Ray."

Ray freezes, sweating, growing numb, ignoring the call of this being, hoping, praying to all the eternal
divinities he would never believe in a sane mind, for his dark clothes, olive skin, black eyes to merge
with the white of the snow, yet he is the God's hated Prince for the voice is creeping, closer, under his
skin, into his skull…

"Ray."

Ray nearly yelps and jumps into the sky when a cloud of hot breath touches his red, torn-apart,
sensitive ear. When a bony hand with long, gloveless, freezing fingers connects with Ray's palm, he
hisses, expects glances all around, murmurs, judging him for his stupid paranoia, yet all who possibly
could are gone.

The only glance Ray meets is the soft, maskless, blue adoration and the only sound he hears is an
enamoured, low chuckle.

"You haven't changed at all."

"Don't scare me like that!" Ray whispers, all needles, pins, and pouts, and visibly tenses, met with a
look so giddy it makes him strangely, unearthly self-conscious. "Should I have? Changed."

"No. Don't ever change, my fire."

It is unfair when Norman looks at Ray like that. When he interlaces their fingers, surrounds him with
long-lost comfort, calls him these little nicknames, and whispers, and knows perfectly well that Ray
would catch his every word, all the snowflakes from the grey sky, a task impossible, yet he'd achieve
it.

"Always look me in the eyes like this, just how you used to."

"And how do I look at you?" Ray asks, knowing the answer.

Norman smirks, the fire of Ray's existence reflecting in his eyes, dancing in them impishly, a sabbath,
the azure hell Ray longs to be in, yet Norman turns away from him, looks at the cemetery, and Ray
sees nothing in his gaze but the empty grey, empty white, empty death, empty life. All flames—
extinguished.

A quiet, hollow sigh, hands disconnected, a gait so practiced, so wooden, Ray doesn't recognize him
as Minerva approaches one of the graves and slowly, brokenly, as if suppressing the shudders of the
agony, sits down near it. Ray mirrors his every step, entranced with a ritual he doesn't understand,
stares at the King who grabs the snow on this grave and clenches it in his bare fists, hard, controlled
fury in the muscles, eyes closed, body shaking imperceptibly, strained, quiet.

Ray looks at the headstone over the grave and sees no name engraved on it.

"Who is… buried here?" He whispers, afraid to spook and distract, yet the King still flinches as if
struck. The snow falls from his hands, and he sighs once, ragged, almost hurt, and his eyes regain
comprehension, the humanity again.

When he buries his hands under the snow and turns to meet his fire's gaze, Ray sees his Norman once
again.

"Cislo and I mentioned the Duels, didn't we?" Norman starts, a stare so intense and unblinking that
Ray flinches. "That's what happens to the people who lose to the King."

"The Duels have existed for many decades, I'm aware." Ray says, nods, avoids his gaze, trying not to
show how sick he is with this whole tradition, peruses the graves, a disturbance in his mind he cannot
quite understand. He counts and briefly stops, a thought staggering him into place. "The number of
the graves isn't… that mortifying, however? One would think such a longstanding tradition would…
harbour more… corpses."

"You are right." Norman says in a strange tone between deep respect and discontent. "Only about
twenty years ago the Duels didn't require anyone to die. Anything could happen, surely, but they
usually ended with one giving up, passing out, or losing a weapon."

"What changed?" Ray nudges, noticing Norman's peculiar unwillingness to speak further.

"The Terrible King won. The one who enacted the law of the Duels to the death, who starved his
people, who abused his closed ones for his tyrannical ambitions. A cruel warrior, a filthy monster, a
foul ruler." Norman says, deep, animalistic hatred entering his voice, shrinking his pupils into the
nothingness of the blue, yet as he looks again at the nameless grave he is a soulless husk once more.
Empty. Quiet. "Even worse a Father."

Ray closes his eyes for just a second, letting understanding settle in, and takes Norman by the clothed
wrists, gentle, intent, pulling his palms out of the snow. His hands shake, blue veins popping from the
sheer pressure of clenched fists, a hauntingly beautiful contrast to his white skin, almost one with the
snow, yet Ray wants none of this beauty as he strokes Norman's hands, one finger at a time, drawing
constellations, warming, soothing.

"He's gone." Ray says and closes Norman's hands with his own palms. "It's alright now."

"He's gone." Norman mirrors, inclines his head, and his eyebrows twitch, a traitor to unsolicited
emotions when Ray buries their interconnected hands under his fur, close to his skin. "But you're
here."

Ray lets Norman get used to it, to this stretching silence, to the feeling of warm acceptance instead of
the cold whips he never deserved.
He doesn't need to ask how the Terrible King died. Instead, Ray sits closer to his tortured Norman and
encircles him in an embrace. Just a tiny bit of resistance, yet a strong hand in Norman's hair (Ray
nearly gasps as he feels the softness of Norman's locks and has to strain himself not to kiss them right
here and now) and a weak tug are all it takes for Norman to lock his arms under Ray's fur and behind
his back. All it takes for him to put his head on Ray's shoulder and sigh, deep breaths tickling the lost
Prince's neck in a way he forgets how to think.

"I understand. I… killed my father, too." Ray says, uncertain, and feels Norman's body freeze, a solid
block of ice in his arms, a moment in time before he shatters and slips away. "No, listen to me. And as
you told me many years ago… It wasn't your fault."

"Which…?"

"What?" Ray asks, missing the words, an unease crawling inside of him as he tries to listen more
closely.

"I said… Thank you. Ray." Norman replies, and a slight, miserable touch of his lips against Ray's
neck shuts Ray's vision, Ray's psyche, Ray's world.

With a guttural chuckle, a twisted grin, a pulled leverage, Norman moves away from his dazed Prince,
stands up, extends his arm, and waits, a sarcastic question in the entirety of him, "What's wrong?
Can't stand?"

"You? You catch on quick, Your Majesty." Ray bristles, rolls his eyes, and still accepts Norman's
hand.

The quiet pleasure, domestic, giddy, sweet fills Ray from inside when Norman interlaces their fingers
yet again.

Yet when all is still, he cannot help but muse…

"I've been thinking…"

"A terrible thing to do. Trust me, this grants you nothing but pure misery." Norman interrupts, a joke,
lighthearted, a smile, a distraction that nearly works.

"If you are the King now, can't you cancel it? These Duels. To the death."

Ray recognizes it instantly, this abrupt tension in Norman's whole body, his unblinking eyes, void,
frozen. Unwilling to talk.

"I can't."

"What? Why not?"

An unnatural smile, of stone and ice, a gaze averted, a question, an intention for him to hide, "Shall
we walk?"

Norman leads Ray ahead, turns his head away, and buries himself in thought for just a minute. A
whole minute of charged, paranoid silence, of their legs crossing the cemetery closer, closer to the
statue. A whole minute of Ray convincing himself to breathe.

"The Goddess is real, Ray." Norman finally replies and meets with Ray's running eyes.
"Awesome." Ray nods, shows a thumb up with a free hand, paranoia making his speech harsher than
he intended. "And what about not killing people?"

"The Goddess is real, and She is gracious." Norman continues as if not even listening, and Ray
restraints himself not to roll his eyes in disrespect. "My Mother is her loyal servant. The guide
between this world and Hers. An absolute woman worthy of an Absolute Being. The Goddess is
gracious, and She will grant you every wish. For a tribute."

"A tribute?" Ray mirrors, disinterested, not really invested in the whole religious propaganda.

"Yes." Norman answers, a shadow falling over his face, hiding his eyes from view. "The tribute is
your life."

"My life, right… Wait."

Ray digs his heels into the snow, stops abruptly, halting Norman along with him, and replays the
whole Goddess talk in his head again.

He misheard it, didn't he? It is his paranoia again. Just like the claws of this freak of a woman, just
like the ominous presence of this statue, his hallucinations are simply acoustical now.

Ray asks, just to be certain, "What did you say?"

"Isn't it practical? It is an honour to die during the Duels. The best death a person could choose. Two
birds with one stone?" Norman responds (Ray wishes he didn't) and smiles, a weak attempt at a joke
Ray doesn't find funny at all.

Maybe hallucinations weren't so bad, Ray thinks, as he tries to erase the words barbaric, insane,
brainwashed from his mind. It is none of his concern, after all. It's a cultural thing. Who is he to tell
these people how to live their lives?

Right?

"That is why I… wanted you to get acquainted with someone." Norman breathes, twitchy, his grip on
Ray's palm is stronger, borderline hurting, as he pulls and strides further to the statue.

A violent shiver, screwed up eyes, nausea, a whisper into his mind, the first signs of a panic attack,
Ray breathes, don't make him do this again.

"Ray. I'm with you. Please. Open your eyes." A gentle voice right from Ray's sweetest dreams kisses
him, and a hand he was dreaming of for long teenage years strokes his palm, reassuring, reflecting his
own caresses.

And Ray complies.

And he cannot believe his eyes.

Before him stands a statue of a man. Of death and life, of black and white, of cracked bones and
marble skin, of torn-apart and stretched wings, of Him.

Of Devil and a God.

"It can't be…" Ray tries to say, to form a sentence when he clearly recognizes the facial features of an
angel. Of…
"Yes. This is me." Norman states matter-of-factly and shrugs his shoulders. "Or I'd say. What I am."

"What you are? What do you mean? This is a… skelet…"

"Not quite. All people are in equal measure good and evil. My Mother made this statue when I was
born. So that I would guard this place. These people who my Father and I doomed to their eternal
pain. So that I would never forget. So that I could come… and accept that I… in equal measure am a
Demon and a God."

Ray studies Norman, his every little reaction, the way his hands shake, the same way as when they
clenched the snow on his Father's grave, the way his pupils tremble, and lips deform in absorbing all
disgust. Ray knows already what Norman will say before he even dares to make a sound.

"But I can't… I don't want… I don't want to be the Saint, the Deliverance, this glorified Hangman. It's
so hard to watch, this, this monstrosity, this deformity, this image of what my Father was and what I
am becoming, this disharmony, this ugliness. And I hate it, I despise myself for looking like it, for
seeing myself in it, for understanding it, I… sometimes I come here, and all that remains within is
loathing and a desire to destroy it until there is nothing left of it."

Until there is nothing left of you, Ray thinks and looks at the statue of Norman, feeling a gaze on his
side, drilling him, charging, expecting a reaction, a reward for revealing the ugliest side, tracing every
little change in Ray's expression.

Ray looks at the statue of Norman, at its one empty, colourless eye of marble, at its chiseled,
mismatched wings, its ebony bones, its skull, covered in ever-falling snow, and something
excruciating, revering, forceful, infatuating, ethereal in the form of the statue, in its every carefully
crafted detail, in its hideousness and absolute beauty, something enters Ray's chest and molds him,
breathes into him, makes him, loves him.

Ray looks at Norman and cannot breathe.

"Tell me, for you are a believer. Is it possible…" The former Prince starts as if in a trance, intoxicated,
dizzy, slightly shaking, as Norman before him melds with the statue, and the image paints Ray's
cheeks with the colour of blood burgundy dahlias and his mind with the icons of the Absolute Being.
"...to believe in a Demon without believing at all in God?"

Ray waits a mere second for a reaction to settle in: for his monochromatic perfection's eyes to widen,
for the eternal blue of them to hide behind the encompassing black, for him to gasp and close his thin,
bitten lips with long, white fingers, for him to shudder and freeze.

The crunching of footsteps on deathly pale snow maims the silence as Ray steps closer to the statue,
an admirer, a worshipper, and, abandoning all proper manners for the gesture, doesn't close his eyes,
stares into Norman's soul, conveying, ruining, redeeming, and

kissing the statue on the thin lips.

The uncaring cold of the marble, the unresponsiveness of the stone, the uneven texture of the angel's
and the demon's lips, everything dies, buried under the snowy soil of this cemetery, when Norman
sighs, a long, terrific sound of suppressed moans, speaking of longing, gratitude, and heretical
worship, when Norman disappears; Ray finally closes his eyes as strong arms cross over his chest, an
embrace of these two raw, bare, vulnerable people, as Norman presses closer to him, almost crushing,
almost making them one.
Ray rolls his eyes and cannot restrict a low gasp into the cold lips of the statue as he feels the heat of
Norman's body from behind, his wildly beating heart, demanding an entrée into Ray's rib cage, as he
feels the scorching wind caressing the back of the Prince's neck.

He is uncertain. It might have been his lips.

Ray takes Norman's palms in his hands and warms them, presses them over his own heart, and loses
sanity, a little thing, redundant, the world cracking at the corners, the skin tearing where the wind,
cruelty he has never even known, adores him, as he realizes the beat is one, at last.

The palms vanish and settle over Ray's shoulders, applying force, bordering on pain, yet Ray is
swifter as he abandons the statue and turns around to meet not a personification but his true meaning.

Norman takes a shattering step back when Ray encircles him, draws him close, revels in his features,
in the pretty blush on the high cheekbones, in the teeth marks on his almost purple from cold lips, in
his eyes, his eyes!...

His statue truly doesn't do him justice. Ray would.

The tension escapes them, lets them be free when Ray takes Norman's head in his hands, a gesture so
loving, slow, and gentle Norman shifts as if to run away, yet Ray stops him and kisses, kisses, kisses
Norman's white eyebrows, his closed eyes, his red cheekbones, a milliard of short touches as if one,
ten, a hundred is not enough. Impatient, deeply, utterly adored, Norman clicks his tongue and turns his
head for their lips to meet by force; Ray, still in control, giggles, a quiet, teasing, almost sadistic
sound right into the corner of his demon's lips.

It is all gone, a swish of an arrow, a fallen tree, when a caw of a crow from the woods freezes Ray,
opens his eyes wide, as it warns him, as it nearly murders him.

"Ray?"

A soft rustle of a voice, a worried whisper into Ray's lips, a touch of fingers on a cheek, on a chin,
eager to continue, not to spook, to take initiative, to soothe and to distract.

"It is just a crow, Ray. Do not be afraid." Norman says, low, blue eyes trying to hypnotize the black,
communicating, look at me. "Ray… Ray!..."

Ray doesn't see him, does not fall for his hypnosis as he shakes violently and bolts away from him, to
the sound of the crow, and as he runs, nausea, the smell of dark rotting paints, a phantom feeling, a
phantom pain from his torn-apart ear, everything screams, heartrending, reminding him of the bloody
chase, of the death sniffing his footsteps.

The former Prince turns around only to see Norman, endlessly worried, albeit disappointed, running
behind him, with blue eyes full of care, distress, and strange guilt, and Ray curses his mind for daring
to draw such a parallel. He is safe. He is loved.

Everything disturbing and unreal disappears.

Yet Ray still runs, peculiarly fixated on this crow, and stops at last when he sees the black bird lying
on the snow, cawing miserably as if begging for help, and Ray complies immediately, takes it in his
hands, careful, afraid to hurt further, and hides it in his arms.
 He feels it from Norman's direction. A stare of a predator who cornered its prey, and it nearly escaped,
a deep hatred, a haunting nightmare, a click of barred doors. He turns around and sees the empty
shade of Norman's eyes, almost glowing in the darkness of the forest; he watches as Norman stretches
his arm and a huge bird, a tawny owl with the same eyes, a source of this intense malice, something
disturbingly familiar, stares into the crow in Ray's arms.

"Won't you give this poor bird back to me? Ray."

A clear threat circles them, envelops in a gust of freezing wind, yet Ray doesn't listen, doesn't see him
anymore.

In total silence, in horrifically accepting indifference, he watches plucked dark feathers on the deathly
white snow lose colour, buried slowly under the uncaring snowflakes.

Beautiful feathers.

White.

Nevermore.

Chapter End Notes

A letter hidden away under the Northern King's pillow

My friend,

Weak. Pitiful. Naive.

Words I hear so often this month they start to lose their meaning. Cislo, Mother, even Father
from his grave spit them at me as if it is an insult, a dishonor for the whole family, jeopardy of
my whole life, of our mission. A betrayal.

I am tired. When Emma's letter arrived, begging me to protect you, I abandoned the castle and
Erlenwald became my home once more. In every dark twist of a rotting tree I saw your figure, in
every howl of the white wolves I heard your cry. In my dreams was not a childhood memory of
my trying to survive here, but the beat of your heart, your thoughts, your warm eyes, your
embraces, your smell, your consideration, your victories and betrayals, your everything and
forever.

I could not murder you, I could not listen to them for I have never wanted anyone just as much as
I want you. That only means you will eventually catch up with me, you will discard me, and I
hope you will kill me with your own hands. I'm eager to see that come true for otherwise, I do
not understand the purpose of me.

The Duels will decide the ultimate meaning of my life. I have done all I could to avert your eyes
from the monstrosity that I will become on a fateful day. Yet I am afraid… I feel as if I'm missing
something, and if my intuition doesn't lie and I have already truly lost… I hope you can find it in
your heart to forgive me for what will transpire.
Just in case the deepest of my fears come true… I pray only that you can defeat me, for me to
yield, to bend, for you to have the strength to rid the world from the mistake that is my being.
This is the last thing I will ever ask from the Goddess.

So that She could protect you when I will be no more.

 Breathless
Chapter Notes

A playlist: Spotify or VK.

My advice for this chapter: The Gravel Road by James Newton Howard, Salem's Secret by Peter
Gundry, or Helene by Martin Phipps (it's here on soundcloud).
If you're willing, listen to the piano composition by Helz.

Did you miss me? :) I sure hope you didn't have to wait, you know, three months for this chapter
to come out, but if you did, this is gonna be a lenghty journey. It's almost double the size of a
usual chapter after all.

Trigger warnings: dubcon (yeah, sorry for that, keep reading until the end), suffocation,
descriptions of severe physical injuries, and mental trauma. If Norman of mine haven't yet rung
any bells for you, he sure will start now, so be warned.

Some things that are cited throughout the chapter: an opera Casta Diva and a novel Carmilla.
There are some other pieces as well that are cited by the boys, but I'll give you a challenge to
decipher them by yourselves!

At the end of the chapter you will find Norman's letter and a commissioned illustration by
my_ce_li_um.

If you're still keeping up with this fic, thank you and have a wonderful read!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

They say the world started with fire.

With thunder.
It started from a speck of light.

They say in the beginning was the Word.

They are all wrong.

In the beginning was the Song.

It is all: it is fire, thunder, it is the light, it is the Word.

It is Hope.
It is the World.

It has a woman's voice, low, strangely operatic. For a while it is the only thing that matters, it is the
only thing that exists.

"Chaste goddess, who dost bathe in silver light

These ancient, hallowed trees,
Turn thy fair face upon us,
Unveiled and unclouded…"

She is not the Goddess for she addresses Her; she is not the Goddess yet as she appears, bleak, timid,
a contrast to her powerful voice, and in each of her footsteps a tree rises above her, behind her. Her
face comes to be, of Holy Beauty, fully white, colourless, unveiled, eyes closed for She Sings—no,
this is wrong. She makes the World exist, one note—one colour, one word—an eternity of meanings.

"Ah! bring back to me

The beauty of our first love.
Then, against the world itself
I shall be your defense.
Ah! Bring back to me
The peace and warmth of love,
And in that love I shall find again
Life, fatherland and heaven itself!"

She bows, and she falls on her knees in the world full of hollow, echoing colours and meanings for in
the world she created the Goddess has forgotten to grace her with one last gift.

The only one she'll ever ask for.

The only one that ever mattered.

"Ah, be once more as you were

When first I gave my heart to you!"

She extends her hands towards the Sky—and there she comes.

The Goddess answers with the last Word.

Love.

"Grandmother?..."

Ray gasps as if awakened by a nightmare.

The dream trails away, washed away by the rain of cold reality, and the last thing the lost Prince sees
is his own dead Grandmother hugging the woman with a white face and blind, wet eyes.

The Grand Priestess.

Grandmother rarely visits him after her death; it is always something too important for him to
understand—a kiss on his black locks, a contrast to her red ones, a signature, majestic colour of the
Empire women; a warm hand in his as she shows him the secret passage in the royal tomb and makes
sure he remembers the trail of symbols from a forgotten language. And now, this.

What do you wish to say as you come?... What do you wish to convey when you so lovingly embrace
a woman whose song makes the world to be, whose song makes him crave he never was?
The day is heavy, windless, and still oddly loud. The castle walls rumble in final preparations before
the day of the Royal Duels, before the Grand day of their King proving himself worthy of his title, of
being called the Guardian of the Holy Library.

As Ray stands amidst the roaring crowd on the tribunes, his soul is light. As if every decision, feeling,
and action of his is graced and forgiven by something more majestic than him. By something whose
title doesn't have to be fought over, that doesn't have to prove anything to anyone.

Ray sees God in Norman as he kills the first opponent.

A little sidestep, raised toes on small heels, a light-hearted laugh, a turn, a thrust, a cut limb, a smile
gifted to the audience as he raises his sword and pierces the heart of his opponent, a SCREA- that dies
in the holler of a crowd that glorifies the first victory of their King.

Ray watches him with nausea, awe, reflected beauty, and primal terror in his eyes; watches the God,
the Angel of Death as if in a trance, watches the blood pour on his bloody scythe, and Ray leans over
a railing, drawn to the cut on the God's cheek, to the blood trailing down his white skin, dripping from
his chin, and everything in him tells him that it would be the most correct action to run towards him
and smother his face with wet kisses, just not to see him bleed, just not to see the Holy beauty of his
skin tainted…

Ray feels iron in his mouth and gulps when Norman meets his eyes and smears the blood on his cheek
with a hand, leaking it with a tongue.

After a tenth opponent, after a mere twenty minutes of the Duels, the King retreats to have a short
rest, and Ray grips his head, overwhelmed by the sights and the smells, of cut limbs, blue eyes, red,
almost theatrical violence, crazy cheers, and his own reverence towards Norman.

It's like he was enchanted… All over again.

"Father, I-I can't…" A small, girlish voice sounds from the side, and Ray turns his head slowly to see
a woman, no, a teenage girl with two short blond ponytails on each side of her head, barely gripping a
sword in her arms, not at all ready to face the King in a trial of combat.

"Yes, yes, I've heard all that." A bulky man answers her, takes her by the shoulder, and shakes, a
gesture of such strength and rapidness that it makes the girl drop the sword to the ground. "Look,
dearie. We've discussed all that numerous times. With your death our family—must I remind you of
four of your siblings!—can ask the Grand Priestess to move us to the warm quarter at long last! We
will be living like Kings and Queens, dearie, why aren't you still comprehending that?"

"I-I don't… don't want to…" She barely mumbles and hiccups, suppressing the waters of her
approaching hysterics.

"You don't want to die, yes, yes, I've heard all that." The Father of a girl sighs deeply and takes her
trembling hands in his as if he is dealing with an unruly child. "Where is your Mother when I need her
the most?... Listen, dearie, there's nothing scary in death. After all, the Goddess…"

As the Father preaches to a young girl, she shakes so much it reminds Ray of someone else…

Of a girl with two short blond ponytails he used to know long years ago.

Of Conny…
Fear for this girl (he doesn't even know her name yet it seems to him Conny suits her the best), for her
frail shoulders, shaking palms, pale cheeks, and chattering teeth rises in Ray's chest and makes him
comprehend exactly what the girl and her Father were talking about.

So that is why there are so many people willing to die by the King's hand? That is why they don't put
up much of a fight? That is why Norman kills them so easily like he was born to exalt and dance to
their death?

They are a sacrifice of sorts?...

Why would the Grand Priestess need so many corpses that are scraped away from the Duel Grounds
and buried in the cemetery near the Church?...

Norman comes back.

Conny starts crying.

It is too late.

…Not for Ray.

Instead of another victim to the King's sword, to the Duel Ground comes Ray.

All in the tribunes rise, even the Grand Priestess, someone yells at him to come back, who is he? how
dare he? That is not what Ray sees or hears.

He sees how much disbelief, helplessness, doom, and agony there is in the endless pit of Norman's
eyes; he hears how Norman's voice trembles when he asks the simplest "Why" that vanishes in the
roaring interest of a hungry for blood crowd; he watches as Norman closes his eyes, inhales, and
opens them again, and there is not a single emotion but such emptiness and acceptance that it
becomes scary.

Norman's grin-smirk is so forced, so shaking at the corners, his grip on the bloodstained sword
tightens, and everything in him silently yells, "Why did you do this?!"

That he has no choice.

That he'll be disgraced before all of his people if he goes easy on Ray.
That he doesn't understand.
That he tried to protect Ray so hard.

What for?

Ray unsheathes his sword, not daring to meet Norman's gaze.

All duels to the death last but one minute.

Ray just needs to knock him out, to hit him on the temple with a hilt.
This will be quick.

What was he thinking?...

On the chessboard, the first to make a move is a pawn.

The King is to be protected. He goes last.

A little sidestep, raised toes on small heels that make a tiny click as Norman evades a thrust to his
open shoulder, as he stares at Ray in a defensive stance, daring for him to be bolder, to fight like he
means it, for why else would he even start this?

A strong sense of dejavu hits Ray with a strike of Norman’s sword over his shoulder—an intended
miss, barely a threat, barely a mistake; the fight is odd for they swing swords, afraid of hurting, for
one hits with a blunt side of a sword, the other stands and covers his head, a tame beast, it’s all a
dance without twirling, stretched hands, an invitation to, but not a bloody feast, a thrust—a block—a
swing—a block—a block—a block—what even is that?

“Ray, this will not do.” Norman hisses at Ray, looks at his trembling hands, blown wide eyes, and
redirects a hilt of Ray’s sword away from his temple in boredom and… passiveness. “If you came to
kill me, you have to be–”

Ray’s eyes trail the trajectory of Norman’s sword like it’s his prey, and the lost Prince sees the
moment when the King gives up: as he lowers the edge to the ground, haltering, when his words
dissipate in the horrendous, ear-wrenching BOO of the crowd…

In seeing his prey only, he doesn’t pay attention to Norman’s eyes: ashamed, clouded in inner hatred,
and altogether vulnerable, all defences broken, a white King checked by a black pawn. For the first
time, the epitome of Death is so… yielding. So willing

to die.

A message.

Do this quickly.

Something changes in his eyes when the Grand Priestess stands and slowly, slowly, her mask falls to
the ground along with a sword from Norman’s grasp, revealing her eyes, white, blind, and majestic.

Something changes… in him.

All duels to the death last but one minute.

This one… could be excused to last just a little longer.

What comes next is not a duel.

It is slaughter.

One blink—one strike—each one devoted to cutting Ray's limb, to pierce his vitals through—the knee
—the thigh—the heart—the abdomen—the elbow—the neck—again—the neck—Norman, please,
stop!

Screech screech screech screech!

Ray ducks down and trips over his own legs and falls on a tailbone screaming when the sword cuts a
tip of his black hair.

A malicious laugh, a turn, a bow, a smile gifted to the audience as he raises his sword and moves to
pierce the heart of Ray, a SCREA- that dies in the holler of a crowd that BOOS the loss of their King
when Ray rolls, rolls, and rolls around, closer, ever closer to Norman's legs to smash his knees with
brutal force, and Norman falls, a broken mechanism, a sword in hand forever frozen.
Ray doesn't wait for his recovery, he grunts, and tops, and wraps his legs around Norman's hips, and
knowing Norman's that much weaker, grabs his wrists, pinning him in place, and Norman's pupils
flare up so Ray cannot see the blue, and then they shrink, unnatural and sharp–

They roll, and roll, and roll, collecting dust, dry blood, and bloodstained snow until

Ray is the one beneath.

Why does he have so much brute force now?!

The blood drips on his face and for a while, he doesn't understand, and the PAIN on his palms tells
him of the sword that reaches, reaches, reaches towards his neck, piercing his palms, and for the first
time, Ray meets the eyes of the King.

Those are the same eyes

Of the wolf who killed his Father.

Ray rarely breathes, he gasps, he opens his mouth to scream in indescribable agony of his hands, of
his sanity being cut to shreds, the blood from his palms gathers in his mouth, and he spits it right in
Norman's face, he kicks Norman in the stomach, and it works, and Norman rolls away from him,
another kick—this time in the groin, and Norman gasps, releases his sword, his only relic, shield, and
armor, and Ray throws it away as far as eye can see, stands up, and runs away, direction opposite, to
the exit, and everywhere around him screams,

"Coward!"

Running past the tribunes, he notices something off, something of foreign beauty, notices burning
reddish-chestnut hair, a signature colour of the Empire women, and he changes direction, and he
charges towards her, and she bows with just her head, and as he is running closer, she hands him her
own bow and one single arrow.

Silver.

He turns around and, weakened hands and shredded palms, he shoots.

He doesn't miss.

“Don't people ever play dirty with you, Your Majesty?” Ray screams, all poison, condescension, and
betrayal, and loses, loses, loses it, and falls on his knees, his palms (he yelps and cries out, leaving the
dust underneath him bloodied gruesome colour, his own red), his side to finally, to finally have…
some… rest.

Before the great collapse of Gods, the last thing Ray sees is Norman's hands clutching the arrow over
his heart, Norman's red from blood tears that trail his cheeks and chin like a gentle lover (Ray of their
past wishes it was him), and fall, and fall on the white of the snow, and Norman's lips that mouth the
weakest, most pathetic,

"Ray…"

Still alive.
…The world cracks a little at the edges. The tear crawls, creaks, and moves on the walls like a snake.
Ray trails its direction with only his eyes and barely blinks. He wonders where that snake could go
next: would it stay and live near a fireplace? how should Ray feed it?
would it be his friend?
would it snap his neck when he is asleep?

Ray is staring at the cracked ceiling and isn't talking.

Not even when Norman kisses his bandaged palms, and Ray's head clears for a split, longing second,
yet in the clear reality of the world, it all comes crashing, and these pressing, loving kisses right on
the edges of the wounds hurt him so much Ray thinks he is being cut to shreds again, yet he never
protests.

Norman loudly inhales the smell of fresh bandages and Ray's blood like he is the wine, like he is
divine, and whispers,

"I see you're awake now. Good. Would you be willing to talk to me?"

Ray's mind trembles, furious that he has to listen and comprehend something apart from the fate of
this snake.

"Would you be willing to listen to me?"

Ray sighs loudly and turns his head ever so slowly only to

meet his eyes.

"Don't touch me." Ray mouths only with his lips, throat so dry, soul so tired, he cannot even spell the
demand properly.

Norman stays frozen with his trembling lips over Ray's palms, eyes blown wide, yet Ray isn't seeing
any of it.

"What did you say?..."

Ray feels his lingering gaze like a physical touch, like a blade carving into his skin, deeper, redder,
just an inch left to pierce his heart.

"I said…" Ray inhales loudly, coughs, and grates slowly, never meeting Norman's eyes. "Don't. You.
Dare. Touch. Me."

It takes all of his mental strength to yank his hands away from Norman's grasp; his whole body goes
numb as if he ran through the Northern Province naked twice and cannot move another muscle,
burdened with a cold so severe today might be his last day.

Ray barely notices Norman's outstretched hands that stay hanging in the air, trembling, Ray barely
hears him when he says, disbelieving, on the verge of something he will never admit,

"You cannot look me in the eye…"

Something snaps inside of him, something changes, transforming his disfigured for a second state into
a line of frozen steel, and he keeps his hands close to himself, crosses them over his chest, and says, a
most obvious thing in the world,
"I suppose I deserve that."

He tells him in the most bored of tones that the outcome of their duel has never occurred before. Now,
the Province will have two Kings—although, the imbalance in power is prominent, since the one who
stayed conscious is Minerva, after all.

Ray can be considered a Second Hand, a King Consort, a Prince, the next in line, a royalty in his own
right, and Ray couldn't care less.

He knows that any title is a curse in and of itself.

…He is so tired of anything but the snake on the ceiling.

He wonders if it will poison Norman if Ray asks. His constant talking buzzes in his ear, permanently
scratches the torn edges of it, and reminds him of the eyes and the pain on his palms.

"As for your hands… I am afraid you won't be able to use them properly for at least a month. If I don't
do the treatment, you won't ever be able to draw again, Ray."

"I don't want you to touch me."

"...Alright. Let's pray you recover enough to… draw again." Norman barely whispers and tries to
touch Ray again as if it is he who is hurting, as if it is he who wants to be soothed by only a promise
of their skin touching.

Ray meets his eyes again in a snapping motion of his head turning, scalded by Norman's touch over
his hands, and hisses, borderline insane,

"Never touch me again for I assure you I will gouge your eyes out as soon as I feel anything at all
with my palms."

…He should have shot him in the eye. Maybe he could have gathered enough strength and shot him in
the second one, too.

"Don't look… at me." Ray finally says, cracked… Ashamed, he turns away from Norman's gaze full
of such gnashing pain and horror, it makes him disgustingly weak.

It makes him wonder whether the duel was even real.

It makes him wonder… Maybe he imagined it all…

Before Ray could even think of apologizing, Norman sighs, a ragged sound, and closes his eyes with
a black blindfold.

"What a fascinating obsession with my eyes... Are you perchance enchanted?" He says, and… unlike
last time that was full of unrealized promises, of a mystery, of kisses on the ring finger without a ring,
this one is…
sad. Cold. Bitter.

The words stay hanging in the air like hanged men on a tree instead of leaves.

It is silent for a long, long while between them.

…The day is outstretched, too much.

It makes him think.

…Maybe too much.

The title of the new Prince of the North grants a lot of privileges, the most crucial of which is the
constant access to the King's chambers. The most loyal of his stone guards give Ray a sleazy look,
bowing to him mockingly and letting him in, no questions asked. Let gossiping people think whatever
they want. If everything is as Ray thinks, the Northern Province will have a King to mourn the next
morning.

He expects to see chambers just as big, if not bigger than Ray's own in Sachevia castle. Yet he halts at
a doorstep, slightly shocked by how unimpressive the King's private room really is. A warm fur rug
on the floor, a crackling fireplace, a single armchair nearby, a couple of bookshelves, a table with a
strange circle and azure dahlia flowers under the glass, a window completely covered in snow, not
letting even a single speck of light in. Nothing at all fancy or delicately royal.

Ray sees Norman sleeping under the fur blanket on the narrow bed, his bandaged chest rising and
falling peacefully under the quilt; fire plays with the shadows on his lips, his eyelids flutter, and a
vision of a child Norman overlaps with this one.

Ray hesitates.

He thinks that maybe... Even as a child Norman was involved in the whole mission of making his life
a living hell. Then, he cruelly pretended to be his friend and casually occupied his thoughts. Like it
was meant to be.

The new Prince strides towards the King's bed and notices the same sword that left hideous scars on
his palms at the headboard. He remembers the strength and abandon with which Norman pressed it to
his shielding hands, eager to finally slice his neck. He remembers his eyes. The same ones that told
him of shy first love.

The same eyes that murdered his Father.

It would be so easy to kill him now.

Ray sighs and puts the sword away before climbing onto the bed and straddling Norman's hips. The
way he wanted to restrain Norman in a duel before... It didn't work. Now, everything will go how Ray
has planned. In sure, confident, weak gestures (it is so painful to hold anything with these hands) he
pulls an obsidian knife engraved with black onyx stones from a hidden pocket on his pants. He hears
only the hard beat of his heart in his ears when he points the edge of the blade to Norman's neck,
straight up.

Norman's eyes open, deliberately slow, agonizingly, crystally clear blue. Not even a little bit drowsy.

Ray's thighs shake when Norman under him starts laughing.

"Am I dreaming?" The King whispers madly, deliriously, the tints of unrestrained insanity spinning in
his eyes. "Ray? Have you finally made up your mi-"

"Shut up, Norman."

Ray almost spits at his face, enraged that Norman is taking the threat this easily. And Norman shuts
up, looking up at Ray, pupils shaking, little devils lighting a bonfire in the pits of his predatory eyes,
enjoying this reversed game of cat and mouse. Feeling the danger under him, a snake that's hissing
like fire, a snake that coils and is readying itself to dart and bite his neck, Ray squeezes his thighs
tighter instinctively, restricting, just to be safe, and he almost falls with a knife over Norman's neck
when this piece of royal shit bites his own bottom lip and bucks his hips under the quilt, fighting back,
trying to throw the Prince off. Eliciting a different reaction than expected. A shiver shoots Ray's
nerves from the legs to the ears, a shudder he cannot conceal.

"Tell me everything." Ray continues, shaking off sudden, unseemly pictures from his mind in an
instant. His voice trembles just barely, but the hands clutching the knife do not. "About my Father's
death, the Duels, why you left me live, everything! Or I'll..."

"Or you'll what?" Norman opens his eyes wide, and the azure abyss in them swallows Ray, chews him
thoroughly, and the knife shakes, hands growing weak. The Prince doesn't notice that the King moved
his neck even closer to the edge. "Kill me? Oh, please."

Norman closes his palms on Ray's bandaged hands around the knife. They stay like this for a couple
of seconds, a gracious gift to let Ray snap out of his trance.

"I've waited for so long. Your Highness."

His unsound, out-of-breath words are Ray's only warning before Norman moves their joined hands
forcibly towards his neck.

Edge down.

A clatter of steel on the stone floor. A sound of slapped skin, a pained hiss, a pair of round, big, big,
blue eyes.

Norman blinks rapidly, holds his hurt cheek in naked offence and disbelief. He looks at Ray's
bandaged, gravely injured hands, the wounds opening again, giving way to blood. He inhales strongly
and closes his eyes.

When the King opens them again, raw adoration that Ray only used to see in their childhood and at
the Grand Priestess' presence bathes in his eyes.

"I quite enjoy the view of you on top of me, by the way. But..." Norman whispers, hardly audible, and
pushes Ray's healthy shoulders with his healthy palms, sits up, and Ray leans back, running away
from the oppressive gaze, from his failure, from his idiotic lingering feelings. Norman corners him,
intrudes into his soul, into his mind, and Ray knows immediately: he has lost.

Again.

"Ray." Norman whispers, a reverent, obsessed prayer into Ray's skin. A prayer to his only God who
mercilessly tortured him to life when the Death was so sickeningly, so sweetly close…

Ray catches his breath when only the tips of Norman's fingers graze his cheeks as if the mad King is
afraid of him, of even touching him; yet Ray stays very still, and Norman gets closer, his palms, his
skin, his eyes, so close Ray sees himself trembling in his black pupils, drowning in the lakes of ever
forming tears.

Norman is crying like a person who has witnessed the sun for the first time in his frozen, cursed with
the eternal darkness North, whose eye colour will turn white, matching his hair, if he doesn't turn
away this instant, who is willingly piercing his skin with rays of black sun that fries him alive, yet he
is looking, and staring, and shaking, and holds him, and breathes him, and craves for his scorching
star to be the last thing he'll ever see for he is

"So beautiful."

Norman's blue eyes so close to Ray's own terrify him, threaten him, lower to stare at his lips, promise
the truth if only he takes the bait.

And he does.

It is a weak tremble against Ray's lips, a repressed, tortured, longing sigh into his barely opened
mouth, it is the rustle of their clothes, the slight shift of Norman's body, to move away, to press
closer?

Everything makes sense at last, and nothing ever matters but the contrast between his King's hot like a
beating heart breaths and cold like death lips. A faint moan that cracks a white coffin of the windows
with unrestrained declarations, that hollers of finally (Ray hopes that wasn't his), a home in the
corners of his dry lips, the tenderness, the adoration, utter disbelief, a weeping, pathetic desire to trust
him when he kisses as if confessing of the gravest sin, of daring to...

Love him.

Norman's lips are soft like winter, and they respond with the gentle caress of a hunter before he
slaughters his beloved, most beautiful pet. Ray swims, and drowns, and shudders, and wants more, in
him, with him, of him, and he forgets.

...Until the Northern King circles Ray's neck with his palm and strokes Ray's throat with his thumb,
searching for a heartbeat, relishing in it, applying just enough force to slightly choke and make his
little forgotten Prince gasp for some air. Ray opens his eyes in shock, betrayal, and sees the endless
blue, and countless azure swallowtails in the form of Norman's tongue stroke his mouth in apologies.
They don't let him inhale. They choke him that much harder.

Ray tries to push Norman's arm away, but he cannot even move a muscle with his still badly injured,
heavily bleeding palms that leave bloody marks on Norman's strained arm. He tries to move away,
and the killer's hand holds him even tighter by the neck as if in punishment for an unruly dog who
tried to run away from its master.

Ray bites Norman's tongue, and Norman bites back. The repugnant taste of blood fills their mouths
(whose blood is that), Norman sucks Ray's bruised tongue, and a following shaky wheeze that sounds
like a moan from the Prince is an earthquake that shoots down his choked neck, chest, and groin all
wrong (not now!). Ray hits him and gets weaker with each strike, and his vision narrows down to
Norman's eyes, the only lights in the creeping darkness, blue spots of close demise. Excruciating,
steadily building up pain in his lungs and throat emphasizes every other feeling, and Norman's fingers
grazing Ray's thigh, bare torso, and chest under the tunic burn like a sword that cut his palms to
shreds and worse than Emma's poison.

He is dying.
Again.

And it is so... hard...

To brea...
…

It has always been at least a little bit harder to breathe around him.

When the grand tree lost its vestments, the creeping cold brought warm plaids and blankets, and Ray
sat in the garden, under that naked tree, under these plaids too big for one person, he wasn't reading
anything. A book rested upon his knees, his eyes trailed lines of complicated words so diligently he
might as well read the musical notes, yet he didn't sing, didn't truly comprehend them.

The only song he marveled at was Norman's quiet running steps.

His legs, cheeks, and shoulder turn freezingly numb as Norman slumps near him, warms his hands on
Ray's thighs under the plaid, playfully, sneakily, as Norman kisses him on a cheekbone, smeared,
gratefully, as Norman puts his head on Ray's shoulder, seemingly to read the book better.

The little Prince tries to cover a lack of oxygen in his lungs, neck, and blissfully empty head, and
laughs, too warm, too sweet, too fond, too obvious, and his breath hitches miserably as Norman
nuzzles into his shoulder. Ray only thinks, almost on the brink of turning his head and kissing his
friend's soft hair,

You are not helping.

Ray thinks that he has died: the memory is so utopian, so idyllic he cannot believe his consciousness
isn't making it up to cope with…

The memory…

He wouldn't mind terribly if that was his last.

The thought makes it almost too easy to turn his head and kiss Norman on closed eyes.

The little boy wrinkles his nose all pretty, smiles like a saint, opens his mouth as if to sing in the voice
of a forest choir, and whispers,

"Now do you know what it feels like?"

Without opening his eyes, his fingers graze Ray's cheeks as if this blue butterfly is afraid of him, of
even touching him with his little wings; he cups Ray's cheeks as if to kiss him, and whispers,

"To be kissed by Death."

And
opens
his
eyes.
Ray gasps and moves away from him, so fast his eyes that scream of guilt, torrid obsession, and of
forbidden words blur before him in a sea of blue that drowns, that kills, that suffocates him all over,
once, forevermore, and Norman's hands clench his cheeks with a power of an inhuman beast, and Ray
tries to get away, he lays his hands upon Norman's, almost intertwining their fingers, almost gluing
them with sticky liquid that smells of metal and of death, and Norman stares, and whispers, and
devours him,

"To taste the freedom of the demise by your hand and then abandon me on the edge of living that I
never even asked for?"

Ray is crying useless "sorry"s, not understanding what he did wrong, and his Norman turns into an
adult, into his white Angel, into his Death, right before his eyes.

"Ray. Why didn't you kill me?"

Ray is trying! yet all his words are blocked behind Norman's lips, his open-mouthed kiss, behind a
moan that rips something inside of him, his lungs, his neck, and the world is dying, crumbling, flying
in a twirl of blue that tears at his skin, his organs, his life

that violently comes out of his throat along with a flock of blue butterflies.

They scratch his throat to raw meat, leaving him filled with gurgling blood, with a desire to cough his
lungs out and have a glass of water.

…The feeling is so unexpectedly mundane, so ordinary, it makes him

open his eyes.

Grey ceiling.

Wet, sticky cheeks.

Hurting palms.

He is alive.

…Death couldn't get a firm grip on him yet again.

Norman. Why didn't you kill me?

Ray wipes salty water away from his cheeks and ears, and a hint of a smell of fresh bandages and
herbs hits his nostrils like a strong, forced whiff of ammonia.

Palms, bandaged all over, not a hint of blood in sight.

Did he dream all of this?...

Just one slight touch of fingers over a frail neck proves him otherwise. He presses just a bit—and it
hurts, in a way only a fresh, purple bruise can hurt; he trails this reminder of last night with fingertips,
and something rots inside of him when his fingers read him a picture of a hematoma in the form of a
hand.

Norman's hand.
He rises from the bed so fast that his vision gets a little bit blurry, and a glass of water on a bedside
table wobbles dangerously, almost trembling. He thinks fast: if Norman wanted to kill him, he would
have already done it, and Ray drinks it, gulps, chugs it down his throat for the pain to calm down, yet
he is still sore, and the bruise on his neck burns, taunts him, look what he has done to you.

There are no mirrors in Norman's chambers, yet somehow, for some reason, he can see it, he can see
this sign of betrayal, of pathetic pity, of weakness he cannot afford, and it is crushing him, it is
crushing his neck again with a force no normal person can have, and he is coughing, rough wheezes,
and his hands fumble around for something to cover the bruise up-

He finds two things, and for a while, his body freezes, a reaction to a real danger, his pupils shrink, he
pales, he turns green, he turns red from embarrassment, from fury, from disbelief, and has to bite his
lips not to wail and tear these things to pieces with his bandaged, barely functioning hands.

He finds a neckerchief, a neatly crafted one, but what bothers Ray the most is the delicate, elegant
embroidery on its left side.

A black dahlia.

Ray doesn't think when he covers his neck with this piece, he doesn't think of implications, doesn't
think why that would lie under Norman's pillow, he just tries… tries so hard not to think.

For he recognizes the second thing.

He wishes he didn't.

He wishes Norman finished the job and killed him if it meant he didn't have to see this.

It is a book.

A book they re-read as children about demons and three kids that saved the whole world from their
clutches.

A gift to his Norman, filled with little, amateur, almost childish sketches of him.

Ray doesn't know what pushes him to hold it in his hands and turn page after page after page and see
him, so detailed, so blindingly happy, it's him, a mosaic, a prayer, a Scripture.

Is that how Ray saw him?

Words in cursive are smeared for some reason, "wasn't your fault".

Of course, it wasn't, Ray thinks.

It was yours.

Ray crumples the page in his fist and understands why it was smeared.

He is crying, too.

He's tearing it shred by shred, wants to haul the whole book into a fireplace, to bury this only
reminder that Ray ever loved him, to watch his angelic Norman burn in the fire, because how could
he ever betray him like this?
He wants to. Yet instead, he raises his head in hopes for the tears to stop like this and breathes deeply.

And tries to fix the torn-down page back to how it was before.

It is not working.

It'll never work.

The words and little pieces of masterpieces are crumbled, they all look old, abandoned, yet somehow
still the sentence screams at him, cursing him, words written by his own hands, words spelled by his
beloved Norman's lips (he wishes it was different, he wishes he could rewind the time and stay
forever locked inside his tomb of stone, he wishes he could kiss him again, he wishes he was never
born when he reads),

"I will stay alive for you".

He is so… so tired.

He wonders whether his memories are even real.

It is exhausting to move. To step one foot in front of the other. When Ray pushes the door with his
shoulder in order not to disturb the wounds, he leans on it with his whole body and wants just a
second to stay… for the freezing wood of the door to soothe his inner fever.

The door is his.

Only a touch makes Ray feel sick.

He doesn't notice the stares of the guards, inquisitive and oh-so-knowing.

He just wishes to lie in his own room and never think again. For no one to disturb him.

Alas, the door of his has no lock. He could invite himself over if he really wanted to.

Ten steps from his bed to a fireplace. Twenty steps from the windows to the door.

Ray hears that Raven in the room, bandaged wing and such attentive, too much so, conscious black
eyes, caws, "Zero".

Zero to freedom.

In the windows, Ray sees the Grand Gates and thinks of running away.

He sees how the Gates open and dozens of hunters with game meat come in, all surrounded by the
Northern soldiers with sharpened swords and quivers full of deadly arrows.

Even the hunters have to be escorted?...

Ray wonders what happens to those who try to escape…

Someone knocks on the door and waits.

Before Ray could come up with a plan (hide behind the curtain? jump from the window? grab a
wooden stick in the fireplace and impale his eye with it?), the door opens and closes, no invitation
needed.
"Your Majesty." Vincent, of all people, bows before him, and the title makes Ray take a shaking step
back. "I have come for as you are considered royal now, some people need your direct assistance."

Ray doesn't answer.

The Raven stares at Vincent and caws, low, as if telling him to get out.

Vincent continues, "I might have to insist. If it's of any consolation, it is a person on your political
side."

The stress on 'political' is a weird one, and Ray asks only with his mouth a question that could as well
kill them both,

"Empire?"

Vincent only nods.

Ray doesn't need to be convinced after that.

He is supposed to be looking around, memorizing all the ways the people mingle in the main part of
the city where common people live, to watch his step, be on alert for any eyes of the colour too
beautiful, too dangerous for his sanity to be reminded of, yet all the while, Ray is staring at the bald
head of Vincent and thinking,

Why would he help him?

Is he betraying Norman?
What for?
Is he searching for silent revenge, and what awaits Ray at the end of their road is a slow death?

Vincent leads Ray to a small tavern that pinches Ray's cheeks with salt and bitter grief for the lost
home.

It reminds him so much of Minerva's tavern… only without people for the hour is still too early.

Vincent doesn't treat Ray to a drink of mulled wine; he doesn't introduce him to anyone important; he
merely bows to a bartender as if she were royal and goes down the stairs.

It is cheapest to rent a room beneath a loud tavern, Ray knows that from Minerva's stories.

He wonders who he will find behind each dark door…

At the very last creaking floorboard, Vincent stops, bows, and opens the door for him.

Ray comes in, mentally prepared for any outcome.

The door shuts behind him.

At first, he doesn't see anything but a simple bed, a table near it with a huge bone left that might as
well be a bear's leg, and a half-empty bottle that fills the whole cave of a room with a strong scent of
cheap alcohol.

What he feels is a gaze.

A gaze of such a purulent colour it almost seems yellow, of such intensity and condescension, it
creeps inside his heart and tears it piece by piece. A gait of a panther, lithe, strong, of a person raised
by filth, raised by royalty, all reddish brown, burning hair, sharp angles, and relief muscles of her legs,
her open, scarred torso, her arms that clutch a vase in their grip and throw it right in Ray's forehead.

Just like her Father, Barbara has always been… just a little bit too much.

He dodges it quickly, expertly, and a cackling, almost demonic, angry laughter overshadows the noise
of the vase loudly breaking over a wall.

"Barbara?" Ray whispers and cannot believe his eyes. "How are you still… I mean… Why… How…"

"Bastards have as many privileges as any dead Princes." She hisses at him, venomous, infuriated,
low… Familiar like a distant, long-ago buried memory. "I came to the North to protect you, but you
never quite tire of wanting to kill yourself, do you? Give me a fucking break, Your. High. Ness."

She says it like it is an insult, like people used to call her bastard, like it is a shame that can never be
washed away, like it is a curse, a weakness, like he is to blame for it; she says it on strange verges of
pettiness and exhaustion, and the light in her yellow, belonging to a vulture eyes flickers in
unsustainable rage and fades away in all-encompassing fatigue.

Ray has always thought he is of moderate height, yet all of the girls he has known have always been
shorter than him. So when he sprints to hug her, his lost friend, his lost betrothed sister, he is just a
little bit shocked by how sturdy, how tall, how rigid she is—like a wall, a stone, a body belonging to
the endless row of Northern soldiers…

He remembers a guardswoman who threw him a bow and a silver arrow back at the Duels grounds…

Under the helmet, she had reddish hair.

So that's what she meant when she said she came to protect him…

For a while, they stay there, frozen in place. Unlike the guards of stone, however, in time, all
awkward, all sharp, uncomfortable angles and relief muscles, she hugs him back.

"I came at the request of Emma." Barbara says to Ray as they both sit on her bed and she gulps the
whole half of the bottle down. "She… hicc… Pardon me, I simply don't deserve to sit in your
almighty presence, the new Prince of the No-o-orth." She humphs and clicks an empty bottle over
Ray's head, a light-hearted promise of a hit. "When I came home to Verhs, first time in what?"

"I think the last time I saw you I was… Eight? And you were twelve."

"Right, right. In ahh… In almost ten years, I wager… I didn't have time to see you. Some…
circumstances… prevented me from announcing my presence to the court. I doubt any of those
bastards would have been that pleased to see me anyway… When the emergency finally left and I was
certain he or any of his men wouldn't chase me…" Ray furrows his eyebrows and mulls over such a
familiar question it laughs in his face: who is he? "It was already too late for you."

Barbara swings her whole body, her legs, and arms in a strange twitch, in calculated swaying as if to
calm down, and her eyes rapidly open and close as soon as only a mention comes up about this person
she had to avoid at all means necessary. When Ray puts a hand on her back and tries to stroke it to
soothe her, she swings her whole body yet again and throws an empty bottle towards the opposite
wall.
Ray has his hands raised in surrender immediately; she continues as if nothing happened, "I don't
know what she did to you, how she saved you. We exchanged pleasantries—it was so good to see my
little sister again, so grown up and so beautiful, so unburdened with a heavy life and so, so worried
for you—and she immediately told me that you were in danger. She said she had no one to turn to,
that she needed my help, that I had been once in the North, she mumbled that she would save
everyone, and I pinky promised that I would. That I would protect you. And what the fuck do I get,
Ray?"

Ray opens his mouth to protect himself, yet pain on his neck, inside his throat, and on his palms is
back, and it renders his speech voiceless: it answers all of the questions for him, and he bows his head
in silent shame before her.

"I get you who wants to die by his fucking hand. Why the fuck did you participate in the Duels? Did
he threaten you? What did he promise you?"

The light of a yellow lamp, her yellow eyes, all three orbs singe him under an imaginary magnifying
glass—he doesn't understand why else his cheeks would redden, would burn so much under her gaze.
She stares at him, interrogating, seeking an answer, and what she finds in his averted eyes, in his pink
cheeks, in his pressed lips, terrifies her.

"No. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Barbara stands up rapidly and Ray only has to watch as she crosses the
room in her enormous stride. He doesn't remember her ever being like this... "I know! Fuck! Ray." He
blinks just once, and now she is looming over him, gripping his wrists and staring at his bandaged
palms. "If you are to survive, if we are to survive here, I need you to be completely honest with me.
Alright? Alright?"

"Alright!" Ray screams in her face when she squeezes his wrists so tight his palms grow purple, so
tight he feels the stitches on his wounds tearing.

She suddenly whispers, "Why are you still alive?"

"What?..."

"Why didn't he kill you?"

Something is burning in her gaze, something dirty, something vile, something rotten, and angry, and
jealous, and Ray picks his next words very carefully, "I do not know."

He truly wishes he did.

"Because he needs you for something else." She laughs, amused, sarcastic, insane, and releases his
wrists to spin across the room. "I get it! So that's how I was supposed to stay alive! That's how I
wouldn't have to spend a decade of my life trying to run away from him! I just had to sleep with him.
How fucking ironic is that! Hahaha!"

"You got it all wrong, Barbara. We don't…"

"But you do! I've heard all about it, from the borders of Verhs to the gossip of the Northern guards:
how he stayed the night in your room when he visited a ball that celebrated—haha!—your betrothal to
my sister! How you stayed the night as soon as you regained consciousness in his chambers and never
left 'till morning! Yes! He spared you because he шs-"
"SHUT UP!" Ray clenches his teeth and shuts his ears with bandaged palms. This cannot be, that's
outrageous, that's all idiotic gossip, that's…

"Y'know. We really can be useful to one another." Barbara sits near him on a bed and strokes his
bandages, all of a sudden touching him so soothingly, so caringly, her voice is a whisper of a cooing
mother whose son got severely hurt by his best friend. "You probably think he's such an angel? That
he didn't mean to hurt you? That it's all such a giant misunderstanding and you are meant to be all
lovey-dovey together? Now, listen well, Your Northern Highness." She leans close to him, her hand
stroking his bandages and resting on his wrist again, and she snatches his palm away from closing his
ear, and whispers. "I know what he is. I know that he's a monster in human flesh. I know he's never
loved anyone but himself, and he will never love you. I can prove it to you."

Ray tries to get away from her, tries to take control of his own hand, yet nothing listens to him as if
she fully immobilized him, his body, and his mind: her eyes promise him such knowledge it would
finally give him a definite answer,

Of whether he made Norman up inside his mind.

"I'm listening."

"Good."

A deal with the devil, Ray thinks bitterly.

Then again…

Norman is someone even worse.

No hesitation, Barbara takes a map of the Northern Province under the mattress, throws a bone in the
mindless and calculated all the same direction of shards of a bottle like she would throw a knife, and
unravels the map on the table.

Ray sees the whole city, the whole system Norman told him about from a bird's-eye view: the
Northern Province is cleanly divided into three districts, each with a distinct temperature. The first
circle, closer to the walls, is the warmest, also the wealthiest; Ray remembers Vincent's words that
only a select few can enter it without harm to themselves. By status, Ray guesses? The second one has
an abundance of houses and the Royal Castle in its proximity; the third one is the coldest, and it has
the Church and circled multiple times by the ink Holy Library. Barbara points her long finger there
and says,

"As you probably already know, the reason why the Northern Province even exists in the first place is
because of the Holy Library that contains every single piece of knowledge on this earth. Only a
secluded number of people can even get in, and they are allowed only by written permission of the
King, the Guardian of the Library, and since the Church has come to be, another permission of the
Grand Priestess."

Barbara tells him that in a very sane, very aware tone—not even a hint of her past actions in sight.

"Let's suppose we have permission from the King." Ray says and flinches, understanding that Barbara
wants him to ask Norman this. If not beg… "However, I wouldn't be able to get anything from his
Mother. The last time we met, she…"

"That wouldn't be necessary." Vincent's voice resounds in the empty room, and Ray shudders from
fright when he comes out of the shadows, just like Barbara.
"How long have you been here?" Ray asks, putting a hand over his heart.

"Not long." He sighs and crosses the room to sit near Barbara, a distance too close for friends and too
far for lovers in comfortable solitude. At a moment's notice, Ray wants to disappear and give them
some space. "Are you alright?"

Ray wants to honestly say that no, not really, yet of course, the question isn't addressed to him, and so
Barbara answers first, "Just a smidge better now that you are here."

"What did you mean this wouldn't be necessary?" Ray interrupts, a bit too fast, a bit too rude.

Too awkward.

"You have both of the signed permissions. His Majesty agreed to give it to you, no questions asked,
and his Holy Mother, well… I promised I wouldn't tell you how he received it from her."

The cogs in Ray's brain turn, slowly, but surely, giving him an answer: a forgery…

But why… would Norman help him?

Ray rubs his eyes with the edges of his palms and says on an exhausted exhale, "And? What kind of
information do you need?"

"I need information on my Father, His Royal Advisor, Leuvis. Anything you can obtain from the
books—it will all suffice."

Barbara says calmly, matter-of-factly, yet her hands grip the edges of the map, a gesture of steel, taut
nerves, and hidden, mad anxiety.

"Barbara. Was that the reason you were in the Province ten years ago?"

Vincent and Barbara both stare at him in polite shock, exchanging glances, as if they cannot believe
this Prince has figured something out himself.

"Yes." Barbara says, surprisingly soft, almost… grateful? As if by this phrase only he's come so close
to understanding her rapid twitches, her bouncing leg, her eyes that open and close too frequently, her
everything that screams that she is not alright.

She never was.

Perhaps, she never will.

"Just what exactly will you be looking for anyway?" Peter Ratri asks Ray as he is checking the
permissions Vincent gave to the Prince.

Peter's grasp on the permission of the Grand Priestess tightens. His eyes widen, and pupils shrink in
utter disbelief when the permission yells its credibility into his face.

"You'll know anyhow. What is the point in asking?" Ray retorts brusquely, slightly lowering a scarf
from his red running nose and purple lips, a mockery in his tone.

Guess Norman outsmarted you this time, huh?

…There is no time to be proud of him.

Or to feel anything towards him at all.

"...You may come in." Peter says through clenched, chattering teeth. From fury or ridiculous cold,
Ray isn't so certain.

The doors of the Holy Library open before him as if by Her own will.

Ray takes a few little steps and basks in the place of Absolute Knowledge: the endless shelves with
tons of books that seem to reach eternity, to the sky with no ceiling, forward where they seem not to
end; Ray wonders how such an illusion can be achieved, and the doors close behind him.

Everything smells so much of dust, antiquity, and power, so much knowledge hidden in the pages of
each book, Ray massages his temples to calm down rapid dizziness, inhales, and becomes one with
the books, and feels the passage of time and space creating another thousand of books as he simply
stands, he sees the endless stream of words being written behind his eyelids, he is the universe of
letters.

He exhales, and everything is normal once again.

Ray notices a pedestal (he is so certain it wasn't there when he took his first steps here) with a huge
book on it.

Somehow… he knows it is what he needs.

The first one hundred—he guesses—pages are glued together, and no matter how hard Ray tries to
tear them gently, it is like they are one block of a page that someone made sure to be unreadable to
anyone else…

The rest of the pages are not much, yet they make Ray question everything he has ever known about
life.

At first, he thinks it is just a fairytale of sorts, yet the further he reads… the more he thinks he should
do everything in his power to read the first hundred, even if he has to do the unthinkable for it.

The book tells him that a person by the name of Leuvis is many. He has many names, faces, and titles,
and he has lived in every royal line, in every family tree, granting a seed to many of the royal heirs; he
has managed to stay hidden from the eye of historians because of his ability to hypnotize people into
insanity—everyone who suspected him was no more not only in a physical sense. Everyone forgot
about them like they never even existed.

Everyone is his prey, and he feasts on their fear.

He has obtained it all through offerings, precious gifts, to his Goddess.

Just like… the Grand Priestess?...

Ray gulps and closes the book,

remembering the hunt for his life.

He wants, no… he needs to leave.

As he turns to the doors in a rushed, panicked hurry, something humongous hits the back of his head.

He stumbles forward, seeing stars, D…, and the floor that closes on his forehead, and it is ready to
smash his face to puree of his skin and blood, yet something catches him by the hood and sets him on
his feet again.

Ray blinks and nearly laughs, dumbfounded by how strange the world has come to be after his death
in the Empire, and turns around.

…On the pedestal, there is another book.

It is a dictionary of the ancient language of the Goddess.

Ray grabs it hastily, tries to remember the symbols on the wall of a secret passage in Sachevia, a gift
from his Grandmother, and something uncanny and melodious finally comes together,

"…Yet she lives on,

And her demonic kin

Destroy the northern blood

In kind, he will

Death, Famine, Conquest, War

They tail his every step

Unless he's none, we'll end."

Ray's eyebrows furrow as he tries to decipher the meaning behind ancient poetry and how it in any
way is related to him.

It has to be.

Why else would Grandmother leave this message to him personally on the walls of a secret tunnel?

He… Could it be Ray himself?

This hypothesis is as good as any other.

…It suits him well.

For Death (he remembers his Sister, his Father, his sister Krone), Famine (he remembers the state in
which his country rotted away after his Father's death), Conquest (he remembers the Royal Duels),
War (he shudders only at a thought that this could be his fault)… Everything truly trails his step.

Does this mean he is the one who will destroy the northern blood?

However, these thoughts could be very self-centered.

For he knows that each time he asked this one little question,

Who is he?
The answer has always been the same.

And who is this she?

And who are these… we?

When Ray comes back to Barbara's room, he recounts everything about her Father to Barbara and
Vincent.

They pale with each new detail, and when he finishes, he adds, hoarse from speaking, from too much
to bear,

"If it's no bother, I would like… to hear your story. What… what has he done to you?"

Barbara tells it like this is the masterpiece of her life, like this is the only thing that ever made her stay
alive. Like she is tearing at her heart with each word, like it agonizes her to speak.

And Ray is willing to respect her pain.

"I was born to a typical union of nobles of the Verhs Empire, as you might know. What wasn't so
typical about my parents was my Mom. This is a symbol of the Empire—a Mother, caring, kind,
having multiple daughters, so loving and understanding she might as well be a best friend to her
daughters. Mine was never like this: she never hugged me, never listened to my rumblings. She
looked into my eyes from time to time, yellowish from birth—a palette of my Father's eyes—and
from our vivid resemblance she always took a couple of shaking steps away from me and wasn't
talking to me for at least a week.

I loved my Mom nevertheless; I cherished every moment. I don't remember much about my Father…
except for one evening.

I've always been a street girl—you could never catch me reading books; I was always somewhere
else, playing warriors of the Princess in my frilly, long, overly expensive dresses that always got
muddied by the end of the day.

Mom never knew when to expect me home.

Neither did he.

I remember this day like it was yesterday… Mud from my heels and dress trailing after me… I
remember how I slipped on a huge patch of it when I tried to run away… A creaking stairway that
had to alarm everyone that I came home…

And my Mom.
Dead.
Her corpse was being eaten by my Father.

You might think I went completely insane… I thought so too. I was certain I had gone mental.
That night, however… I lost my Mom.

I lost my Father.

I do not know why he didn't chase me. Maybe he did; maybe he never stopped. Sometimes this is the
only thing I feel—his breath behind my back, the smell of blood. And of my Mom's perfume of
almonds and rotting plums.

I never returned home. The streets I adored so much accepted me; they became my adoring Mom,
they became my only Father.

My Father who didn't torture my Mom to death and didn't suck the meat on the bone of her clavicle.

That's where I learned how to protect myself: how to throw a punch, dart a knife, fight dirty, steal
without being noticed, cook from the skins of spuds, make connections, wriggle my way off the hook.
That's who little sweetheart, Her adorable Highness, Emma got it all from. All from me.

It wasn't announced who was the Father of our first Princess. It's never important; I never cared when
I was four and struggling to survive.

When I reached the age of ten, the guardswomen found me. They told me the Empress—the Empress,
Ray!—wished to see me. When I saw her, it felt like I was talking to the Goddess herself—the same
one they bow to in the North. I was ten, and she just gave birth to her third daughter. The first
daughter, I later came to know as my little Emma, was all red, from her hair, a shade more beautiful
than mine, and cheeks to her opulent dress, even more extravagant for a six-year-old than mine ever
were.

The Empress told me I am the lost daughter of her husband and she would have liked me to live in the
castle as her own daughter. I wouldn't be laying claim to the throne, of course, but... That was all I
ever wanted… The Empress—she asked me to call her Maria—was everything I ever wanted from a
Mom. All of those words, kind, caring, loving, best friend, she encompassed the image of the Perfect
Woman in her profile. Because of my timid suggestions, she helped improve the lives of the
homeless. Suggestions of a ten-year-old!

Yet my Father… was also there. In the castle.

Always one step away from my little Emma.

She didn't have to become friends with the bastard, yet she did. She was my sweet angel. My light in
the dark, the most diligent of my students, the most strict of my teachers, the loudest, the prettiest, my
doll who taught me that it's not a shame to be all cute and sweet, to weave braids to one another, that
it's alright to have friends and not be a Mom to everyone younger than me; her shy lady in waiting
Gilda once told us that all three of us would have a wedding one day and she would design and sew
dresses for each of us.

I've never laughed as much as I did with them…

Yet the more I stayed in the castle, the wearier I grew. The more paranoid. It became evident why my
Father cared so much for my little Emma—she was next.

Or… I… was next.

Not even a year passed, not even one single word was exchanged before I ran away; I left a letter,
certain that it'd be a quick journey.

I've never been so wrong in my entire life.

I nearly died in the Dark Forest. Yet moments before northern wolves could feast upon me, a boy
saved me. A little boy. His Highness whose name, appearance, whose whole existence was kept a
secret from the public.
His Majesty was too ashamed of his son. Of him being a weaker warrior, a weaker person, a white dot
with blue eyes belonging to his Royal Father, proof that this weakling who couldn't even grab a sword
right at his three years of age was indeed his son.

And so Minerva or… what was his name back then? was sent to survive in the Erlenwald. Sometimes,
it was a couple of days. Sometimes, a couple of months. Eight-year-old Minerva told me it was to
strengthen his body and spirit; I think his Father just wanted to get rid of him. A little nuisance. A
little white mistake.

He used to tell me many sappy stories about his life. I was merely twelve myself—I trusted him, I
sympathized with him so much, I cried for him, I hugged him. My poor cousin. My Father and his
Mother—I cannot be certain anymore whether this is true at all—are siblings, so I came to care for
Minerva like he was my little brother. I became his confidant, I was trained for a whole year to be a
part of his personal army—that's how I met everyone. All of it was for one purpose: I needed proof
that my Father is a monster, I needed access to the Holy Library. I was ready to do everything to
achieve this; Minerva promised to help me.

Who could have known that it runs in the blood.

That all along the monster was this weak little boy. Overnight, Minerva became my personal
nightmare.

One day he told me that all preparations were complete. He asked me just for one last favour: to leave
the Province, travel to one inconspicuous village in the Verhs Empire, and…"

For the first time in a long while, Barbara shuts her mouth. She bites her tongue and fidgets, mulls
over words, and something akin to panic, something akin to a feeling of an arrow piercing his skin,
his ribcage from the back overwhelms Ray with blood in his mouth when he whispers, "What?"

"Ray. It is I who broke the carriage. The one where… your Mother lost a child."

Silence.

"He promised, Ray!" Barbara blurts out rapidly, stumbles upon words and syllables, seeing as Ray's
olive skin becomes green under the yellow light, as his mouth hangs open, gasping for breath, as his
eyes screw over, as his hands grip the hair on his skull, and he whispers endless no, no, no, no- "It was
to break one insignificant carriage! I couldn't have known the consequences, please! I was so ecstatic
to finally learn the truth. I didn't care what he was plotting. After the deed was done, I came back, and
Minerva laughed at my face. This little shit told me that I'm psychotic, that I imagined everything,
that I-"

Ray doesn't hear her next words.

The unusual thing that attracted his undivided attention as a kid at the carriage's window was a
northern owl.

Norman?...

No.

Please.
This is a nightmare, he pinches his cheeks so much his grip leaves a red trail of fingernails over his
reddened cheeks, he gulps and stutters the only thing that makes sense,

"You are lying… Barbara."

He would never do this.

Back then, he was always… his gentle, caring, sweet Norman, he would never!...

"What the fuck?!" She suddenly yells at him, and only Vincent's hand on her shoulder keeps her from
tearing out Ray's tongue that dared to spell it. "Then what were the endless years I spent running away
from his spies?! What were my nights when I awakened by a choking smell, by a knife over my throat
only because I came to know that he is a FUCKING MONSTER-"

"SHUT UP." Ray stands up, and no hand of Vincent is on his shoulder to restrain him from any
physical mutilations. "Another word, and I swear it-"

"Ray." Vincent's calm, a bit too much, voice holds him by the throat, in place, and Ray only has to
stare into Barbara's eyes, promising her torture if she dares utter another lie, and she answers him in
kind. "You find it hard to believe her words? Then, I have a suggestion for you. As a new King, you
have a certain privilege we might use… to convince you."

And Ray has no choice but to listen.

For he will finally learn the truth right from Norman's mouth.

***

Ray remembers street theaters back at Sachevia, back in his childhood, where actors sang and played
clarinet, puppets, and laughter of kids who swarmed whenever they would start their performance,
just enough silliness in their stories both for children with empty heads and overly tired adults to
enjoy.

He opens the red curtains guarded (as always) by multiple soldiers of stone, an entrance to a royal
theater box, and sighs loudly at the sheer artificiality of this all. Of the giggles beneath, of the guests
dressed in expensive furs and silks, of the expressive red, of the actors who cannot for the life of them
improvise and who have to learn a single role for a week, of Minerva sitting on a lustrous chair that
faces the stage and resembles his throne. This up high, guarded by his loyal dog in the name of Cislo,
the parallel is evident. Sickening.

What Ray doesn't expect is a second, identical, vacant chair near the first one.

…Belonging to him now.

His musings are interrupted by a snicker of laughter, almost a low, short bark,

"Did you see this, Boss? Our new King", Ray's new title sends Cislo into new gales of giggles, "has
already found himself a girlfriend!"

"Whatever do you mean?"

A familiar voice makes Ray take an unconscious step back and gulp when his back hits a curtained
wall of red, trapping him here, reminding him that he has to go through with this.

…It helps that Minerva doesn't find it all that polite to greet his coruler or in any way show his
hospitality for him.

"Well, he has this white neckerchief around his neck," Ciclo says as if Ray isn't even here, "and there's
some dark flowery girly bullshit on the side. It's obvious it's a gift from a gi-"

"What's the flower?" Minerva interrupts him, curt, fast. Strange. He fidgets on his chair, clutches the
armrests, turns his head just a little bit, and finally stands up like an instrument string that is ready to
make a snappy cling and break.

"The hell do I know? Hey, pretty boy." Cislo whistles, beckoning him to come over as if Ray were a
stray dog that is called by a promise of a treat, and for that, the new King will only get a kick in the
ribs. "What's the flo-"

"Black dahlia." Ray barely whispers.

He knows that Minerva will hear him well enough.

And he does. The answer makes his body fall on his chair in an unsettling movement as if all of his
bones have been broken by three single words alone.

Cislo didn't hear the answer, yet his chest is puffed, his grin is so wide the shadow in the box makes it
reach his ears, and even as he pulls back a chair for Ray, all subservient and considered, Ray knows:
this pile of human shit is so immensely proud of himself, thinks himself better, is so certain he has
torn them two apart.

There is no need.

Norman has already done enough.

When Ray sits down, he darts a quick, if a tad panicked glance towards Minerva, just one second to
check what was this reaction for.

One second turns into one minute of unabashed staring for Minerva is wearing a blindfold. His cheeks
on an unhealthily pale skin dust a very deep hue of red.

…That would be very inconvenient to watch a theatrical performance lacking one's vision. Why
would he do that?...

Ray is staring at him so much it looks inappropriate; yet a thought is swirling in his mind, and it is so
important, he mustn't look away…

A table with a strange circle in his room…

He recognizes it now.

It was an embroidery frame.

Ray remembers, a memory so old and dusty, it doesn't feel real as if he read in some book and
claimed it for his own, how little Princess Emma tried to sew and squealed sometimes how it is a
useless activity, not at all suited for her lady fingers, that she ought to be swinging darting knives, but
she promised Mother to teach this to herself.

Gilda laughed so much at her words back then…

Ray touches his neck and trails a detailed, intricate embroidery of black dahlia with only his
fingertips.

Did Norman do this… himself?

The audience is already clapping, and the lights are turning down.

It is time to stop thinking.

It is time to enjoy the show.

The Crown
Directed and set by His Majesty, Ray

Characters in the play

The young Prince, son of the late King and Bella, the Queen
Norma, his bride
The late King, father of the young Prince
Bella, widow of the King, the Queen regnant
Servants
The Judge
The Executioner

ACT I.

Scene 1.

Voices all across the Kingdom.

Servants. What do we do?

What will become of us?
The Queen’s too old, the Prince’s too young!
We demand justice!
Ah, let the young Prince serve our justice!
He will get to the bottom of this!
He is our only hope.
Radiant boy, as if there were two suns in the world.
He will serve the head of the murderer on a silver platter.
(chanting)
Murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer…

Bella, the Queen. What’s with the clamour? Let my little boy finally have some rest.

Scene 2.

Chambers of the young Prince and his bride.

 The young Prince looms over his desk, writing something on parchment of paper. Norma, his bride,
enters and massages his shoulder.

Norma. My love, my heart’s with you. I share your pain, but have a little mercy: it’s been a lot of
time. Take a break, let’s have the evening all to ourselves.
The Prince (tired). My love, I cannot abandon my Father…
Norma (massaging the crown of his head). No dead kings have a place in our bed.
The Prince. My love, I cannot abandon my people…
Norma (leading him to their bed and cradling his head). That’s not your fault, my love, take a break,
let’s have the evening all to ourselves.
The Prince (uncertain). That’s… not my fault… my love…

The scene goes black.

Scene 3.

The Prince and Norma are in their bed. Norma hums his lover to sleep.

Norma. Could you believe it is all your fault?

The Prince (half-asleep). What are you saying?
Norma. Your suspicions never lied to you, my sweet boy.
The Prince. Father?...

The scene goes black. Norma exits, enters the King.

The Prince. Father! Father, I cannot believe my eyes!

The King (halting him with a palm). My sweet boy, you’ve seemed to grow even in that time I have
been dead.
The Prince (reaching for his hug). Father! I beg of you! Please, tell me who your killer wa-
The King. Of that, I cannot be certain, my child. This kingdom needs you, not the answer to your
never-ending musings. Take a break, my son; the answer will surely put your head for the Executioner
to-
The Prince. I do not care for my head or any other, Father! Tell me, I beg of you, my people want him
on a spike, I want him dead and torn apart, I cannot sleep, I cannot love my bride for I am sick with a
thirst for blood, I-
The King. It was you.
The Prince (taking two shaking steps back). What?...
The King. That night. I cannot say for certain. However, a hand this strong that slit my neck and held
me into place only belongs to a true ruler of our domain, my son. I am truly sorry and beseech you not
to tell a single soul-
The Prince. No! No, no, no…

The scene goes black. The King exits, Norma enters. Norma shakes the Prince awake.

Norma. What’s wrong, my love, what’s wrong? Another nightmare?

The Prince. No, no, no, no, please, get away from me!...
Norma. What’s wrong, my love, what’s wrong…
The Prince (rapidly standing). My memories are all jumbled, but I think it’s me… I’m sure it was me.
Norma (strangely insistent). What’s wrong, my love, what’s wrong…
The Prince. It was I
(looking at the audience)
who murdered my Father.
 Servants (chanting).
Murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer…

ACT II.

Scene 1.

The place of trial and the scaffold.

The Judge. Do you, before all your people and loved ones, admit your crimes?

The Prince. I admit my guilt. I admit all of my sins before you, Judge. Executioner. Mother. My love.

The Judge. Do you admit that it is by your hand that His late Majesty has fallen?

The Prince. I… do.

The Judge. Before the law, we are all equal, Your Highness. Now lay your head on the scaffold.

The Prince (crying, doing as asked, slowly). Goodbye, my people, for I betrayed your trust. Goodbye,
Mother, for I betrayed your swollen, tearstruck heart. Goodbye, my sweet Norma, for I betrayed your
love. Greetings, Father… My apologies cannot be enough… I was so sure it wasn’t my fault until-

The Executioner. The time for your last words has passed.

The Prince (gasps, turns to look into Norma’s eyes). No!...

The Prince attempts to raise to his knees.

The scene goes black.

Servants. He will serve the head of the murderer on a silver platter.

Radiant boy, as if there were two suns in the world.
Is no more…
(chanting)
Murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer…

Bella, the Queen. What’s with the clamour? Let my little boy… finally… have some rest.

Scene 2.

Norma sits on the throne. The Queen puts a crown on top of Norma’s head. The Queen exits.

Norma, the Queen. I do so wonder. Whose fault was that?

Norma, the Queen, stays sitting on her throne all alone in the darkness. The curtains fall slowly.

The audience claps uproariously.

Turning his torso towards Ray, smiling wickedly, His Majesty claps along with it.
Ray is watching him for any reaction that might give him away. Unfortunately… their plan has failed
for he sees nothing in the concealed eyes of his… Norman?

Ray's breath hitches (a strange, delicious mix of horror and of want) when Norman leans his whole
body forward, just so that his lips and the dark velvet of his blindfold brush Ray's cheeks as if in a
very casual, very light kiss, and a corner of his ear, and whispers,

"Meet me at the hot springs. I'll show you my gratitude for this entertainment."

Ray grips the armrests and hisses right in Norman's ear from pain, forgetting about his injuries. They
scald him, and his hands weaken, his whole body weakens when Norman is so close, he wants to
mash their body together and dive off of a cliff with him, and how unfortunate it is that his hands have
given out…

Norman, a response to Ray's reaction of stone stiffness, cradles his head, and kisses him on the cheek
in earnest, a gesture of such purity, with such cold lips, Ray's cheek tinges an embarrassing pink, and
his breath stales in his throat when he tries to resist,

"I told you not to touch me."

"I beg your pardon. I couldn't resist. That was delightful. Thank you."

Ray breathes again when Norman's laughter doesn't touch his skin anymore, and Norman whispers,
"Remember. I'll see you at the hot springs."

Everyone is gone in the theater. It is so quiet… As if his and Norman's performance has ended, but for
some reason, the curtains are still raised and they have to play their roles.

How long was Cislo gone, exactly?

Ray doesn't think long before he bolts to the hot springs.

Clearly understanding that this is a trap. Yet the mark on his cheek urges him forward, and he doesn't
understand why such a simple kiss would sting so much.

He just wants… the pain to finally go away…

Thick, dense fog envelops him as he enters an open bathing area. Snow yearns to fall on the cold
stones under Ray's feet, yet the fog eats all the snowflakes in its path, a strange hunger of a carnivore.
Still, some patches of snow lie on the ground, accentuating stones around a steaming bath, almost a
decoration, exclusive for His Majesty… Where is he, by the way?

For a while, Ray feels and sees nothing but this fog that sticks to his naked skin and leaves immediate
droplets on him, a reminiscence of dead snowflakes; Ray thinks for a second how utterly ridiculous he
must look from the outside: gripping a towel on his waist with trembling, bandaged hands, eyes
screwed over, a crooked posture that would allow him to run at a moment's notice, bangs sticking to
his face…

"You can come in. The water is nice."

The voice merges with the fog, and in its general direction, he finally notices a flock of white hair that
looks like another handful of snow, a patch of white skin, and a blot of a black blindfold.
"I won't bite. Unless you want me to, of course."

Ray already sits on the edge of the bath, tips his toes in warm water, and crosses his arms at the
suggestion.

"...Sorry."

Ray sighs, deeply, lacking oxygen amidst this fog; he wishes not for apologies but for explanations.

That is why he came. It is too late to freak out...

…over his hands, his eyes, his existence, their childhood, his bloody kisses, his naked body, the
question whether he is even of human nature, the question whether…

Ray's whole body submerges into the water; it is so soft in feel, his thighs, torso, and chest are
massaged, washed by the warm hands of someone else who touches him all over, with each little
wave, an immense relief after the northern cold. A sigh, long, relaxed, all wrong escapes his lips, and
he presses them into a thin line when it echoes in the springs.

…He tries not to stare at Norman. At all the little ways his body tightens, how his white eyebrows
furrow, how his hair sticks to his neck, just like Ray imagined in his dreams before bed, how scarred,
how beautiful he is without anything…

…without absolutely anything, Ray blushes and averts his eyes away from Norman's abdomen under
water.

Without anything but a blindfold on.

Ray has an idea for why he would choose to wear that even while 'watching' a theatrical performance.
Norman could understand well enough what was going on on the stage just by his impressive if a tad
disturbing hearing, but the reason for him to wear it now…

"That was clever."

"...What?"

"To call the woman Norma. A rare person would address me not by my regnal name. Nobody simply
knows the other."

Ray doesn't know what to say, how to react, where this conversation is going, why he has even come,
why they are sharing a bath, how mighty idiotic he was to even consider…

"Don't be so shy. I saw you half-naked already."

"That was a long time ago." Ray snaps, a defensive tone of voice.

"Oh." He nearly drawls, very slowly nodding his head from top to bottom of Ray's body as if he is
admiring Ray with his eyes. That is impossible, the black of his blindfold should hide everything, yet
just in case Ray crosses his hands over his shoulders, hiding his chest, and he clicks his tongue in
sheer embarrassment and shame for his thoughts and actions. Put them away now… This is
unbecomi- "Has your perception of me changed?"

Fucking bastard.
Norman continues, whispering, daring him further, "You don't have to love me to admire my body."

"I am not admiring you... Your, your body, I mean."

Of course, he is.
And Norman knows that. A smirk colours his face a strange, shy red in Ray's face, and he sighs,
making it echo on purpose, making the insides of Ray's stomach tremble, and puts away his wet bangs
over his forehead, and does a prolonged, heartfelt stretch, all taut muscles, fresh and old scars…

…A new scar left by Ray's arrow over a very old one, white and bulging, that both form a cross where
his heart is supposed to be.

Norman whispers, "Don't you remember?"

Ray remembers.

A wound he left to the northern wolf.

The one that nearly murdered him.

The one that killed his Father.

Ray pushes himself from the stone wall so he can escape if the need arises. This doesn't escape
Norman's notice.

"Let's play a game." Norman says very casually, upbeat, if childish, as if he's expected this, this
reaction, the ripples on the water.

"A game?..."

"A fun one. To be frank, I'm quite weary of your constant snooping around the castle, asking my
people uneasy questions, conspiring with my allies against me, reading the forbidden books in the
Library..." Norman's voice thrills threateningly, but his tone remains uncharacteristically soft, a bit too
nice. A beast luring his prey with the sweetness of his voice. "So, I'm proposing to you an exclusive
offer: I'll tell you every bit of truth you so desire."

Ray is walking on a rope, the abyss below him threatens to swallow him, and Norman's words are the
mischievous wind that pushes him towards his death.

"What's the catch?"

"For any answer from me, you give me a kiss. I promise to be absolutely sincere, and..." He hums in a
pleased thought. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Liar.

"You wanted the truth, didn't you? I'm doing you a favour."

"A favour? You royal piece of shit, you are manipulating me."

May Goddess blast him for how dare he laugh right now? "Am I, really? It seemed to me like you
desperately needed someone to kiss you. And, of course, someone who knows how to do it."
"Aren't you projecting, Your Majesty?" Ray hisses, recognizing the words from a romance book, and
shoots him with his own recital. "I should only need to stab you full of barbed arrows made of silver
like a pin cushion."

Ray expects Norman to retort with something even wittier, a verbal, infantile duel of bookworms, yet
Norman doesn't say anything for a while. The lost Prince watches with an open mouth as he blushes,
huge red smears over his cheeks, bites his bottom lip, and leaks rapidly appearing droplets of blood.
Ray watches his tongue, long, slick, and wants, wants, stop, stop, stop-

"Feisty. I like that side of you."

…He nearly drags a yell from Ray to quit messing with his brain.

Ray asks instead, already mentally exhausted, "What do you get from this?"

"Are you aware that it is the fourth question you asked without giving me a single kiss? I'm not
playing like this, Ray."

Ray's eyes narrow dangerously, not liking where all of this is coming from.

"And I didn't agree to play yet."

"...Fine. Let it be a test run before the fun begins." Norman clicks his tongue, annoyance and heavy
disappointment visible in his strained arms that cross over his chest. "But it's such a pointless
question. You know the answer already, why ask? Just think a little bit for yourself for a change."

"Norman!"

"Fine. My motives are purely egotistical: I really did enjoy kissing you and quite unexpectedly so. I'd
like to repeat that." Norman says, an obvious sultry note in his voice. This time, Ray covers his neck
with both hands subconsciously. "Not the cho…" He coughs as if it was his throat that got clenched in
a vice. "Choking part. I thought you were… I was… I'm… sorry."

I don't believe you.

"Ray. Would it really kill you if we kissed?"

It nearly killed him last time.

"So? Are you ready to begin?"

Norman could kill him. Try to choke again or even drown if Ray allows him in his space. Yet…
somehow, for some reason, he is still alive. Still breathing, palms bandaged all over, still musing
whether all of this isn't just a long, long dream of his, insane and mangled, where pieces don't make
sense, the love of his life is a monster, and he right now is lying in a tomb of stone and dying…

Alas. He is still here.

Alive.

Then Barbara was right: does Norman truly need him for something else?...

Ray just needs to be in control. Don't let him come any closer than necessary.
It is nothing personal. Risks are laid bare before his eyes, and the rewards are tantalizing. The promise
of this easy game is pumping his blood with blind adrenaline. If His easily aroused Majesty is
manipulating him, Ray should do the same in return.

He accepts. He should start with something easy.

"Are you a werewolf?"

"Of sorts. It was a gift."

…Ray starts to gather what kind of gifts this Province has. Why is there such a difference in
temperatures in the North in the city alone, why do people die and send loved ones to die in the Royal
Duels, where does such wealth come from people in the warm quarter…

The Goddess grants gifts in exchange for a tribute.

Ray asks, just to make sure, "A gift or a miracle?"

Norman, all smiles and gentleness, all ready to accept him, all of him, blows him a kiss, reminding
him of the conditions of their game. "You are a miracle, my fire."

So... It is Ray's turn now. He doesn't allow himself to close his eyes, watching for Norman's every
light movement. Norman, however, leans into him completely, in absolute trust, breaths heavy and
laboured, when Ray intrudes into his space.

…Ray doesn't know what his Father would tell him right now. His unborn Sister. His Mother. He feels
them slip like water over his palms, he feels even thoughts of utter betrayal of his family vanish
before one single peck on Norman's lips.

Ray sees this switch clearly, instantly: a change between a longing, trembling in badly hidden passion
young man to this professional mask of a King who listens to his subject's questions patiently, in
slight boredom.

"Why did you kill my Father?" Ray asks, and it is clearly a long shot. He could never be certain about
his theory regarding Norman's wolfish eyes. It could have been just his distorted imagination.
However, even if it is just speculation... He needs to be sure.

"I was ordered to. But it was also my own decision."

Ordered to?... By whom?

Ray regrets accepting the game, asking all of these questions, tearing his childhood memories of
Norman to pieces. The gentle Norman who protected him from enraged orphans, who told him that
nothing was ever his fault, who danced with him, who soothed his skin and soul from pain with cold
hands... The images are flashing in his mind. They disappear, buried under the soil of bitter ashes, one
by one. The ashes were once Ray's home.

A lie.

Maybe it would have been easier if he just ran away right now. To let at least the ashes remain.

Yet Norman is already waiting for him, lips parted to disallow simple pecks. Ray mimics the shape of
his slightly opened mouth and kisses quickly. He still swallows the ghost of Norman's breaths, and it
burns his throat, and it twists his lungs, the phantom pain making him uncomfortably dizzy.
Not fast enough.

"Who gave you the order?" Ray mutters weakly, hoarse, unintentionally sensual. He coughs to shake
the pieces of sandpaper from his voice.

"I cannot tell you." Norman states like nothing happened.

"Then you aren't getting anything from me, I hope you're aware."

Norman's lips tremble. He weighs the options in his mind and shakes his head a stern no. Well, fine...
So be it.

"Did you come to Sachevia castle to kill me?" Ray asks and prays to all the Gods and Goddesses
humans have ever imagined for Norman to say no.

"Yes."

Ray doesn't even manage to feel crushed anymore, already expecting the answer yet still hoping for a
different one. Still... Didn't he have so many opportunities to do this? They were alone, in secluded
places, so many times.

Ray calms down his breathing, holds Norman's jaw in his hand, and for a moment, Norman looks
ready to kill Her for him. That is until Ray closes the King's open mouth shut, pressing on his chin
with a forefinger, and pecks him on the lips again, away in a second. A flicker of rage passes in
Norman's trembling shoulders as he clicks his teeth at the prey that got away and bites his lips with
unexpected force.

What a showoff.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

"You tried to kill me, I tried to kill you, we both decided that it's rotten work. You are boring me."
Norman says and raises his eyebrows in irritation, judgmentally, stating the obvious, silently
demanding his reward.

"That is not what I asked. Don't dodge the question." He says and swims just a little bit closer to
Norman, eager to hear his true response.

It is silent for the longest while.

Silence before the lightning strikes Ray right inside his heart.

"Because I fell in love with you. You are the most beautiful soul I've ever met."

Norman taps his lips a couple of times with a long finger. Ray barely sees bold, bare anticipation in
his crooked smile; the fog makes his figure shake a little, forming Norman's smirk into a fond smile.
Another lie?

The most beautiful soul... Love...

It is a trap.

Ray has never received words like these from anyone. A heavy blush paints his skin the colour of
blood burgundy dahlias.
Maybe Ray is finally losing his mind.

He steps, swims even closer to Norman, suddenly sharing his breaths, and it is all so familiar, it is as
if they are standing on a balcony in the castle of Verhs, and puffs of air from Norman's mouth tickle
Ray's lips. It is all different now, and he tries to breathe evenly, tries to convince himself that he is in
control, that Norman will not do anything to him right now that Ray doesn't want him to;

Ray takes off Norman's blindfold with shaking fingers.

Norman has always been a connoisseur of speaking with his gaze. He blinks slowly at Ray, squints his
eyes, unused to the light of his sun, stares, and clashes with his Prince in challenging arrogance. The
eyes of black eternity, honest, eager, betrayed meet with Norman's own, and something changes when
he avoids the burden in Ray's gaze. The water gives way to ripples, the snow to avalanche, and the
eyes full of painful infatuation to Ray's demise.

He is trying to find the love Norman has promised him.

"Do you regret what you've done?"

"Yes."

Right now, he doesn't care if that was a lie.

Right now, Ray is falling for him. For the last time.

For the first time, he lingers. He closes his eyes and kisses Norman's anemic lips that teeth bit with
bloody force not a minute ago. Ray holds the King's head in his hands to steadily follow the line of
dry, chapped lips with a tongue, caressing the teeth marks. Another kiss, another long brush of their
lips, the next one gentler, bolder, deeper than the rest, all rules and powerplays are forgotten for one
blissful minute. Ray hears a light splash of water before Norman's wet hands stroke his wide
shoulders, fingers outlining the form of outstretched wings that are Ray's collarbones.

The same fingers brush the little cavity on Ray's neck accidentally, experimentally, and his throat
constricts, reminding him of their nightly tryst.

He is suffocating again.

A sudden push, terrified eyes, an open advantage, and Norman closes his hands on Ray's wrists, and
pulls him forward, an awkward foggy spin in the water. Ray gasps, pressed between a cold stone wall
and Norman's heated, naked body flush against his own.

He has lost control. Again.

"I knew you enjoyed my kisses." Norman mouths into Ray's lips and kisses him just once, a gesture
so excruciatingly innocent, so shy and short-lived, it is a ridiculous, mocking contrast to how their
fingers intertwine and Norman massages his palm, caressing so insistently sweetly they might as well
be making love with just their fingertips; to how one of Norman's hand lowers to rest on Ray's waist
and presses his whole body so close they are doing the tango again, but this time their nipples brush,
torturing friction, white skin on olive, and Ray feels him, his firm, bare flesh pressed to Ray's thigh,
separated only by a thin towel.

He doesn't know what he wants more: a new pair of lungs, an escape route, or to surrender to these
lips, these hands, these eyes that observe, that challenge, that murder him with each kiss, each shared
breath, each of his lies.
"Look who's talking." Ray breaks the connection, mutters, hoarse, immensely proud of himself for
managing to retort anything at all; Norman’s eyes bore into him, patiently waiting for a smart answer,
and Ray knows by that vexing, condescending smirk that Norman can feel him too. Ray wets his lips
with a tongue, shuts his eyes to escape him, this relentless, irrational feeling of needing Norman's lips
on, Norman's body in, Norman's whole heart with his own, and blurts out the first reasonable excuse
that comes to mind. "That is not my… desiring you, you just... scared me."

"Scared you?" Norman asks, a question of such wonder Ray opens his eyes again only to be
predictably, freezingly captivated by a twinkle, an emotion deep within his azure Ray cannot
understand. Norman closes in, plants an aching kiss on Ray's grown bangs, right where his eye is,
torturing, out of place gentleness in the gesture. He whispers, pent-up agony, conflict, and guilt stuck
in his throat. "My sweet Prince, you do not know what scared is."

Norman kisses Ray's ear and moves lower, accompanied by his Prince's quickening, panicked
breathing, and stops at the corner of the neckerchief. He lingers on the edge, and unbearable lust
mixed with painful terror in the reflexively closing neck makes Ray grab Norman by the hair, abuse
his lips, forcing his way in with a thumb on a trembling chin, and dissolve in his muffled, shocked,
sinful moan.

No one leads in the indecent tango of their tongues, and Norman memorizes Ray's body with his
frantic hands, imprinting each scar, each muscle into memory as if it is his last chance, as if it is
Norman who needs Ray, and hugs him, arms, body, and legs, and pulls him, drags him lower, towards
the surface of the water-

The music halts and so does their dance, the silence snapping Ray out of the trance when the water
has already claimed Norman's ears.

As if to soothe Ray's rapid panic, to calm his futile attempts to free himself from Norman's embrace
of frozen steel, Norman lays his lips upon Ray's, not even a kiss, a trap, a game, a mistake, and
whispers, whispers, whispers,

"Let me show you."

And Ray surrenders.

And lets him drown them both.

Ray has always been afraid of water.

Of drowning.

Suffocating.

Yet…

There is peace in him.

In his lips, bitten to the bloody purple. Like he has already drowned for Ray while he was just a pup,
holding him, many, many years ago.

There is peace in water.

Like it is caressing Ray, his neck, his abdomen, whispering in his ear in low tones a song to let him in.

Like Norman is the water.

And for the first time, when Ray's neck is closing and Norman's grip on his body tightens on a painful
reflex so much it might leave a permanent reminder on his corpse, he knows what to do.

He opens his eyes, fighting through the pain and the urge to drag them both to the surface again, and
Kisses
Kisses kisses
Kisses him
Quickly, counting seconds until their very last breaths, kisses gently, kisses his eyes, his chin, presses
their bodies in a perfectly molded line, so tight Norman's eyes roll and his mouth opens uselessly to
enfold them in a sea of bubbles from inside his screaming lungs, kisses his rapidly filling with water
ribcage, his trembling chest marked with a horrid scar made by Ray's own hands, and he is trying, he
is trying so hard to see behind the dust clogging his eye sockets, to count, to translate Norman's
silence, his weakening, twitching grip on Ray's wrists, to understand that right now

Norman is dying by his hands.

And for the first time, his body doesn't answer Ray's kisses.

Ray pulls at Norman's roots, lost and half-losing consciousness, marvels at his beauty, ethereal,
eternal, a child of water and of Ray's frozen by a kiss heart, blinks once, raking his fingers through
Norman's almost translucent under water hair,

and pulls him above water by this same hair.

Ray coughs, and coughs, and coughs the water from his lungs, and opens his Norman's slack jaw ajar,
breathes into him once, twice, come on, and he is coughing too, thanks his blasted Goddess, and Ray
is holding, and Ray is pulling at his hair on the back of his neck, sharing his much-needed air, and
dares for him to answer.

And Norman answers, oh he does. He answers with the eyes of mad adoration, with burst capillaries
where his majestic blue is drowning, disappearing in red blood, and everything is swimming yet again
as if Ray has never risen above water, and he is suffocating under this blood, and he is searching for
peace, and he is searching for him, and
Kisses
Kisses kisses
Kisses him
And Norman gasps as if he has only just now come out of the water to breathe the air.

Who are you?

What have you done to me?

Why does it have to be you that I…

And Norman answers.

Oh he does.
Ray recounts this event in his mind so many times the blood in Norman's eyes gifts him everyday
nightmares where everyone is dying.
By his or Norman's hands, he does not know already.

He is just… so. So tired.

He muses all the time. That this was a mistake.

That he should have let Norman drown them both.

He sees it in Norman's eyes, the encompassing word that threatens to collapse above him, to chain
him to the torture of constant breathing, of ever-festering guilt, of staying alive… with him.

Did Ray survive their encounters only because he loved Norman too?

He is not the last link in this scheme. Ray will uncover the true mastermind behind all of his
sufferings sooner or later if he gets closer to Norman. Ultimately, gathering resources and studying
the enemy is best done under his wing.

It is easy: they are just using one another after all. Ray pretends to love Norman, and Norman
pretends not to want to murder him in return.

It should stay that way.

That's what Ray thinks when the King invites him to live in his chambers, and he embraces the naked
form of the lost Prince like he is a relic, a shrine, or the God himself. When Ray sits on the King's
knees in the throne room, eyes rolling, soul tarnished with the mightiest high he has ever experienced.
When they make out on the snow, the mixture of hot and cold, the endless praises and confessions, all
of it works unfairly well on Ray's body, all of it threatens to confuse the Prince's lust with love. It's
never love, he always has to ground himself. It's mutual manipulation.

It is easy to avoid the Northern King's eyes behind the ever-growing bangs. It is so ridiculously
simple to hide the lack of love, but Ray knows better than anyone else that the King is not a fool.
When their eyes meet (and he loves looking Prince in the eyes), Ray pretends to see his sweet, gentle,
caring Norman he used to know long years ago, and this stranger believes him.

Has this Norman ever existed?

Ray recognizes the glimpses of him. In his disappointed, patronizing condescension when Ray loses
against him in a sword spar; in his careful kisses to Ray's temples when no one sees; in the warm
comfort against his shoulder when they read one book near a crackling fireplace in Norman's
chambers and Norman leans against him, full body, full soul, recites into his lips the words, engraving
them inside Ray's skin with indelible white ink,

"You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish.
How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me,
and still come with me, and hating me through death and after."

It should stay that way. Because otherwise, Ray doesn't understand what he is feeling anymore.

"Won't you sing for me?"

He asks in the deep of his own chambers, a gracious gift of the King to let him keep his privacy if
needed, caresses feathers on the throat of his Raven, listening to the weak caws that almost tell him a
regretful 'no'.

"Will you fly away from me when your wings are all but healed?"

He asks of his Raven he saved from the clutches of the Northern Owl and flexes his palms, trails
fingers over thick lines on the skin that feels off, that feels old, wizened, elevated, that will stay
forever, deeply, hideously scarred.

Raven caws a weak, regretful 'no'.

"Won't you sing for me?"

He whispers once again, afraid to violate the quiet, and deeply wants for something, for someone to
disturb this deathly silence of the North, for something to break, for someone to yell, for the murmurs
of the ball where he would be unneeded to fill his ears, for the raucous laughter of someone he cannot
quite remember to fill his wounded heart.

Raven doesn't answer him.

For in the North it is always… always so quiet.

Once, he attempts to run away.

The wind pushes him to sprint even faster in the direction of the Grand Gates that stay eternally
closed, that no one has ever escaped behind apart from one person on this earth.

Everything favours him this night for the Gates are open.

And Ray cannot move away.

He stares at the space between the doors, sharpened like teeth eager to munch him to pieces, at the
Erlenwald that mocks him with a promise of torture, at the lump of a world that never ever wanted
him.

You've grown so much, my heart.

Ya look so mighty happy the stars might as well have chosen ya!

Ray's brows furrow in the answer to the voices he cannot quite understand, cannot quite name, cannot
get enough of.

…They scatter like the best, the most unrealistic dream he has ever had before the merciless grasp of
reality on his throat. Someone hugs him from behind and trails freezing, dry lips across his cheek,
inhales him, and holds their breath. The action leaves Ray petrified not for long; his body darts forth
only to be blocked with sudden force by these hands, this soft voice, these weak, whispering, pleading
into the depth of his being words,

"Don't leave me, Ray."

His hands press on Ray's chest in the form of a burial cross.

Ray is all covered in scars left by Norman's hands.

Will you fly away from me when your wings are all but healed?
 (And Ray will never heal.)

The time erodes along with his dark wings, and no one seems to care for the hourglass that buried him
within, under white, cold sand for good.

Forevermore.

Chapter End Notes

A torn to pieces letter lost in the snowstorm

My fire,

The unsent letters to you are like my personal diary. They are as fleeting as your touch on my
skin, as your life in my hands.

I wonder if you can hear my scribble these words on parchment of paper as you are lying asleep
on my bed. I wonder if in your dreams you can differentiate the words, you smart thing, for I
want you to hear this from me even in this state.

…I cannot take my eyes off of you. I love when you are asleep. When your eyes are closed,
when you are most honest with me, when you mumble my name in one breath, so tender and so
unabashedly longing, I wish to crawl inside of you and be a part of these dreams where you call
me as if you adore me.

I love when you are awake. You are majestic as you walk, as you stand beside my throne, and all
in me commands that this is wrong, that you must be the one sitting, that I must be the one
kneeling before you. It would be forbidden to meet your eye, but you surely would make an
exception for me. I cannot for the life of me miss all your emotions, all your little expressions, all
your life, as I kneel before you and declare my undying love for you.

I cannot say the same to you in my dreams. In all of them, the same thing happens all over: you
under me, my arms on your throat, and you. Staring.

I always press the hardest with my palms; it never occurs to me that I might break your Adam's
apple and leave you voiceless, if not lifeless. Do not get me wrong, I adore your voice. It is
always calming me down, it's bringing me back to you from the most boring of state affairs, from
my Mother's heavy presence, from my mind that always yearns to drive me insane when I cannot
hear your voice.

In my dreams… You are always quiet.

You aren't dying.

You never die.

No matter how hard I press, no matter how many times I break your neck, you never… You
always stare at me with your black eyes, expressionless, void of anything but strange apathy, and
you devour me each night, you eat of me bite by bite, you torture me, and I want you to shut
your eyes, and I want you to die quicker, yet you stare and stare, and I press harder, and black
butterflies fill my vision, and I need to stop, and I am begging, begging for your butterflies to
stop tearing my eyes out, Ray, Ray!...

I bless the nights and the Goddess for when she does not grant me any dreams.

…If in your dreams you can differentiate the words, I wish to say that I am sorry. I am sorry for
confusing the dream with reality; I should have guessed when you kissed me so timidly, so
agonizingly sweetly—this never happens in any of my nightmares—that you were not a dream.
When you wheezed under me, when your throat gurgled under my fingers, I should have…

I only realized when you fell silent.

You are always silent, always staring at me.

This time… there was…

I am so sorry… I do not understand anymore where lies the real you.

Where lies… my real purpose.

I promised Mother, I was raised with the only intent to murder you, yet in all honestly now… I
do not understand anymore who dies during my dreams.

At least in this reality, on this bed. We can be alive together.

Ray…

Ray.

I beg of you.

Don't leave me.

 The Throne
Chapter Summary

When Ray sits on the King's knees in the throne room, eyes rolling, soul tarnished with the
mightiest high he has ever experienced.

Chapter Notes

A playlist: Spotify or VK.

There's also (as always) a piano composition by Helz.

From this chapter onward, I'm changing the rating to Explicit. I hope everyone's on board with it!
lol If you're really not into that, I think you can skip this chapter (although I wouldn't recommend
it. There will be more scenes of this rating down the road).

At the end of the chapter you will find a link to tiorino's illustration (since it's NSFW I will not
be showcasing it to you outright)!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The fur blanket on the King's bed scratches Ray's bare skin unpleasantly. He is lying on a pile of hay
bar magnificent blue sky above. Ray can always imagine it, however…

He uncorks the bottle with fragrant oils, and the smell reminds him of home. Of soft grass, dirty
knees, warmth, and stars. Ray applies the perfume on his fingertips and trails them along his jawline,
experimentally, slowly. The feeling is unexpectedly sensual; Ray's cheeks turn a shade of maroon
when he rubs the oils behind earlobes, and his imagination betrays him to picture Norman on top of
him, showering with wickedly gentle attention.

Norman's eyes are the colour of the sky back at Ray's home, and his lips suck on Ray's inner wrists,
caress the ends of his hair, touch his inner elbows feather-lightly. Ray closes his eyes, trying to tame
the fantasy, but it only grows worse: the King circles the Prince's nipples with his tongue, slides lower
to his stomach, and lower to lick the lines of his hip bones, and Ray's hips squeeze involuntarily, toes
curl.

An uncontrolled moan destroys the illusion. Ray snaps back to reality, shaking, dizzy, throat dry, body
oiled perfectly.

Damn him.

He exhales slowly, hands itching to relieve him of this sweet small torture. And yet he simply lies
there, flashed, out of breath, naked. Only a neckerchief is covering his neck, and Ray knows its effects
on his lover. A barrier, a forbidden fruit, a physical mark of their twisted relationship. An agreement
of trust.
He is waiting for Norman. And Norman isn't coming.

Five minutes. Ten. Eleven. Fifteen. Twenty. He loses count at twenty-seven.

Where is he?

Norman never abandons him like that. He is always sickeningly punctual, preparing for bed at the
exact same time. Why today of all days something must have happened? Why now?!

Ray clicks his tongue, painful lust transforming into extreme bloodlust. Oh, he'll kill him. He'll
murder him in his sleep. He'll suffocate him, he'll crush his head with thighs, oh, no, don't go there.
Heavy, frustrating dissatisfaction kicks him in the groin. He wants either to wash everything from his
body and never speak to Norman ever again, or find him right now, beat him, and have him until he
cannot say Ray's name and apologize anymore. And that would be such a huge waste to throw all of
Prince's efforts away for that matter. It cost him a big coin.

He dresses quickly, the prim and proper clothes of the royal court stick to his skin, and he almost
screams at the guards stationed outside of their chambers. They laugh uproariously and tell him that
the King is holed up in the throne room.

It's a five-minute walk, but Ray gets to his destination in a minute, the cape behind him flutters
gracelessly when he runs, and the guards take him for an intruder or a beast for a second. They point
their swords at his neck when he tries to brute force his way in.

"Halt! Not even the devil himself can pass through us!" Ray rolls his eyes at their theatrical duet,
takes one step back, and forces himself to smile reassuringly.

"It's just me."

"Ah! We are extremely sorry, but His Majesty ordered us not to let anyone through!"

Ray doesn't care what His bloody Majesty ordered.

"I'm sure he can make an exception for me."

The guards blink at him, turn to communicate with each other's eyes, in disturbing synchronization
check Ray's state up and down. He recognizes this silent, invisible judgement but doesn't care already.
Just let him in, rumours and slurs be damned. And they do.

Ray smirks to himself, thinking that Norman needs to renovate the system of training the guards if all
it takes for them to break the King's word is his one frustrated coruler.

When the massive wooden doors close behind him, a forgotten rotten feeling twists him, giving way
to nausea and a throbbing headache. He has never liked this throne room. Needlessly vast, the
metaphor incarnate of the King's superiority in regard to common people. An easy place to kill
someone, and even the uncomfortable echo in the emptiness of this hall wouldn't save, wouldn't alert
anyone.

In Ray's childhood, he thought that throne rooms were the face of the Kings and Queens. Her Majesty
Maria's was a massive dance hall, a reception for anyone who wanted a piece of her advice, her care,
or her warm embrace. Ray's parents' throne room was that only in a name. It was a small, well-lit
museum of the greatest works of art (he remembers his Mother ordering to pin his childish drawing of
their family on the walls along with the masterpieces centuries old). A place full of love and
compassion that didn't have any thrones.
His Northern Majesty's throne hall is nothing of the sort. Norman sits on the sole fancy chair, draped
with expensive furs, and he always stations Ray to stand alongside him. They look at one stuffy
minister after another from above, always in perfect secrecy. The long line of pompous bureaucrats
tells the pair of the foreign news that might concern Their Majesties, the troubles of the peasants, and
not even once comes a foreign envoy or an actual representative of the common people. The
ministers' voices echo, boom in the vast emptiness of the freezing dark throne room, massive
windows covered with curtains.

Ray hates it here.

"What are you doing here?"

The blue eyes that look nothing at all like Ray's sky back at home bore into him and blind him from
above. Ray has never understood the point of protocols and social classes, but he can feel why people
would be inclined to bow before the Northern King, no royal etiquette learned beforehand. He exudes
such raw arrogance, dazzling, torturing superiority in his whole figure, the eyes scanning everyone
with the sharp gaze of a predator. He always looks like he will be the one to decide where you go after
life comes to an end. A ferryman to Hell or Death himself.

Ray doesn't bow before him.

Death's eyes slit with dark amusement as if meeting a particularly interesting case.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"I wasn't," Ray answers fast. Too fast. Norman easily detects a lie, relaxing on his throne, examining
Ray's dishevelled state. A condescending smile paints his frigid face with some colour. Ray furrows
his brows at the sudden exposure. "Why are you here?"

"Contemplating." Norman's reply is easy. Like all conversations with him, it doesn't answer any
questions. "And why are you here?"

"I was worried." Ray thinks it is best to avoid the embarrassment of his exposed lies. "You never
make me wait."

"So, you were waiting!" Norman covers his mouth with a hand, ostentatiously, classy, like a woman
would hide her smile behind a fan. "There is nothing to be ashamed of. Most people want good sex
from time to time."

How did he...

"If Your Majesty is so exquisitely intelligent," Ray seethes at him with false pleasantries, wants to spit
at him, waves of red shame and fury blocking the meaning behind all the etiquette classes he has ever
attended. "...and you've already figured everything out, let's go."

"I have no desire to stand up."

"Are we so afraid of freezing our royal ass?"

"You could say that." Norman laughs warmly, openly, and his hand doesn't manage to cover an
affectionate smile as his laughter rings throughout the throne room. "You quite detest it when I look at
you from above, don't you? Come, talk to me here." He clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. What a
drama king. "What an impatient Prince you are."
Ray doesn't need to be told twice.

He sprints, runs up two stairs at a time, nearly trips, and Norman slowly blinks only once before Ray
is already standing before him, proud, enraged, so, so beautiful.

"Better?" Norman asks, a slight mockery in his voice when he stares at Ray from the throne, head
held high.

Instead of spitting back the same sarcastic remark, the Prince closes in on the King, traps him, hands
on the armrests, leans in for a kiss...
Only for the said King to grab Ray's hips and lower his whole body down. A yelp rolls around the
whole room, and Ray shuts his mouth with both hands, ears burning, what a disgrace. He meets with
Norman's quizzing eyes inches apart from his own and realizes his position belatedly.

"Norman! That's... That's unbecoming!"

"Why? Don't you like sitting on my knees?"

Ray's eyes almost pop out of his head, doesn't he understand that it's a bloody throne, and Norman's
sneering grin right in Ray's face states clearly that he understands everything perfectly well. Ray tries
to stand up, mouth agape in silent aggravation and offence, only to be lowered down again forcibly.
He grinds against Norman's thighs on impact, inadvertently, feeling the King's muscles tense under
Prince's legs and ass, and wants to die.

"Wow." Norman almost whistles at the view, borderline caresses Ray's legs with his eyes. "I clearly
underestimated..."

"No. Don't. Don't continue that sentence." Ray lowers his voice in a useless threat, paranoidly checks
the closed doors, registers the cape behind his back covering them from any... unnecessary incidents,
and finally meets Norman's eyes head-on only to find crashing disappointment in his gaze.

Norman's clothes rustle tantalizingly when he seizes Ray's chin, enabling a staring contest.

"You smell like you've been drunk for a month and then got sold to a brothel. Care to explain?"

Norman is most expressive when he speaks with his eyes. They tell Ray of deadly jealousy, betrayal,
toxic lust, and suppressed tenderness. He reads his King well, yet the words still hurt.

"How can you say that?! It's- I, I applied special oils for yo... For us." Ray's voice cracks miserably as
he says it and pouts like an offended child, and Norman stares at him, disbelieving, suspicious. "I
wanted to try something new. Do you despise my choice this much?"

"No... Overall the perfume is pretty good. Strong, a little bit effeminate, thick. A sweet gesture you'd
never do for me." Norman says, a cold tone of analysis in his voice. He squints his eyes, trying in vain
to find an answer in Ray's gaze. It reflects nothing but a question back to Norman's eyes. "It suits you
rather well. But... I don't like it on you."

The King's hands unbutton his Prince's suit, all playfulness gone, revealing scarred, sinewy skin bit.
By. Bit. Ray shivers at the sudden cold and a hot open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone. A desire for
him to linger and do more vanishes when he pulls back, a clear disgust on his face.

"I shouldn't probably explain this to you, since you seem to know me so well. But look how these
clothes fit you." Norman says, trailing his fingers on the black and blue of Ray's uniform, carelessly
caressing his forearms, bare chest, and stomach. Every little touch makes Ray's blood run colder,
turning his muscles to stone. "My colours on your body. You look majestic in them. As if you belong
to me."

Norman grabs Ray's head forcefully, kisses him deeply, and Ray immediately chokes with a swarm of
blue butterflies in his mouth. The Prince breathes deeply, in control, squashing the sudden dread in his
stomach. He should have applied a little bit of oil on his lips, too.

"When you lie with me in our bed after one of our nights..." Norman drawls and pulls at Ray's lower
lip with his teeth. "You taste like me. That, along with your natural smell... It drives me mad."

Norman closes his eyes, trails Ray's cheek with his nose and lips, going lower. Ray raises his head
instinctively and sighs raggedly when Norman inhales the scent on his jawline in suspicion.

An astonished gasp is accompanied by a startling rapid growth in Norman's pants, and Ray turns red
when his King grinds against him fully clothed.

"My sweet Prince, what are you trying to accomplish? I see you. If you are using this perfume as a
shield and a knife..." Norman looks at him with that crazed religious adoration in his gaze, and Ray
doesn't expect a following playful flick to his nose. "So smart. Wicked."

Norman stares at him, completely enamoured, absolutely immobile, and Ray doesn't wait for him to
snap back. There is almost no time left. He makes quick work of the belt on Norman's smooth pants,
slides them along with undergarments to his knees, and exhales in badly hidden thirst, filtering out
Norman's gushings.

"So beautiful, so cunning, perfect." Norman mumbles incoherently, praising, euphoric. He takes a hint
and strips Ray of his pants in a second, grabs his bare ass, squeezes appreciatively, and raises him
higher. Ray almost whines at a rough treatment, digs his nails into Norman's shoulders, hoping to hurt
in return. "Trying to finally gain control, trick me, reclaim your revenge. But I won. What do I get for
this little victory?"

In one motion, Ray takes a small bottle of oils from a hidden pocket of his pants where his knife once
was. Norman's eyes still glisten teasingly when he tries to say,

"Always prepa-"

A harsh stroke of an oiled palm interrupts him, turning his words into a drawn, quiet moan. Even the
smell doesn't bother Norman as much when it is Ray who is touching him. The Prince circles his
King's cock and applies the oils, efficiently, thoroughly, up and down, again, roughly caressing the tip
with fingers, looking Norman straight in the feverish, drowning in pleasure eyes. Multiple clicks of a
fallen empty bottle accompany Norman's dizzy, relaxed state as the back of his head hits the throne;
he watches the art that is his Prince finally hovering above him, hips perfectly aligned to slide down
Norman's half-hard cock, but no one moves to begin. Norman meets Ray in a messy kiss,
encouraging, fueling, but Ray only presses his mouth into a thin, strained line.

Hesitant?

"You are so stiff. Don't press your lips like that." Norman whispers against Ray's mouth, rolls his hips
experimentally, holds his own cock (the oils stick to his palm, slippery, sticky, unpleasant), and circles
Ray's entrance with a tip, teasing, eager, impatient. "It's hard to kiss you when you are like this."

He receives no answer from him, no loving kiss back. Instead, Ray shuts him up by moving his whole
body down, easy, used to this, well adjusted, one hand on Norman's shoulder, the other tangled up in
his hair, almost hugging his head, directing his lips to Ray's chest, pressing with force. Norman almost
chokes on this vile scent as it explodes in his mouth, violating him from inside out with each
deliberate, abrupt move of Ray's hips. The King tries not to breathe when he licks his lover's chest,
contouring each of his nipples sloppily, getting increasingly harder inside of his Prince when Ray,
breaths hitched, having finally found the angle, the spot, the rhythm, pulls at Norman's hair painfully
sweet and grinds against his pristine satin blouse. Norman feels the shape of him on his stomach,
shivers as Ray slaps against Norman's thighs repeatedly in a hypnotized rush, and Norman bites Ray's
skin not to scream

Ruin me.

He cannot see Ray's face, he cannot see anything behind this veil of disgusting odor, and his hands are
his eyes as he gropes Ray's ass possessively, caresses his hips, scratches his thighs, lovingly outlines
the scars on his stomach and chest, quickly counts his ribs, messily massages his shoulders, ignores
his neck, touches his burning cheeks, intrudes into his dazed open mouth.

Ray sucks on Norman's long, slender fingers obediently, licking, biting each one; he gags when they
caress his tongue, trying to go deeper. The tremble of his whimpering voice shoots through Norman's
whole body, a bolt of lighting, messing with reality. The King shakes violently, rolls his eyes, and
doesn't finish right here only because of this blasted smell. He inhales strongly, gasps, and Ray
manages to read his lips as they peck on Prince's scars left by the King's sword.

"...I know."

His fingers leave Ray's mouth alone, and lips abandon Ray's chest altogether, going higher, higher...
Ignoring collarbones, shoulders. Right to the clothed neck.

Ray stops moving, a hard realization evaporating his dizzy lust like it has never been there.

He didn't apply the oils to his neck.

Ray lets Norman's head go immediately and slides out of him in one move of his hips, almost
standing upright on his knees, escaping, only to be stopped with rough hands on the ass, clenching,
impaling him, back in place. Ray yelps, physical concentrated pleasure hammers inside of him, and he
runs away from it again, and Norman doesn't let him, hands bruising even harder. Again, again, and
again. The rough friction is a trap, a game of chase where Ray finally wins: the smell of oils envelops
them like a cocoon, blocking every other sense, and Ray finally lets out a victorious moan. It thunders
in the empty throne room, and Norman is dying, electrocuted, the Goddess finally striking him dead
in place.

Norman swallows his own moan, allowing his cocky Prince this little victory, stops pressing on Ray's
ass, and instead, fondles his ego with long, squeezing strokes just how he likes it, matching the
quickening pace of his beloved Prince's bounces. Ray shakes on Norman's cock and stutters, whispers
a prayer sweeter than any religion can possibly create.

Norman. Norman. Norman. Norman. Norman.

Ray's scream is stuck in his throat when he slumps against Norman's body, still trembling, losing
colour, his pupils are exploding galaxies, and he is losing, losing, losing it... Fainting.

On the edge of his consciousness, he hears Norman's exhausted, dissatisfied sigh.

"I knew this would happen."

Norman thinks Ray is most beautiful after sex. Long bangs sticking to his forehead, black eyes
smoldered with gentle pleasure, flashed red, painfully sensitive skin, bruised lips that Norman can
kiss until demons decide it is finally his time to go (and he still would drag Ray with him to the abyss,
unable to part). Yet this time Norman strokes his skin, freezingly cold, kisses his lifeless lips that
respond neither eagerly nor in a panic. Ray doesn't feel alive.

He should have figured out these oils are poisonous to his Prince much earlier.

He doesn't grant himself this masochistic pleasure of throwing accusations of what he should have or
could have done. He simply covers Ray's body with their protective cape, slides out of his
unconscious body, still distractingly hard, puts pants back on, and with the remains of animalistic
adrenaline allowing Norman to finally hold him like a princess, he kisses Ray's lips again.

Guess fairytales were lying after all.

He nearly trips when he runs down two stairs at a time, sprints towards the wooden doors, and doesn't
hear the screams of his guards when they yell excuses at his back.

...When Ray regains consciousness, he thinks he's still having intrusively intimate dreams. Hot water
pours on his body, and his King cleans him thoroughly with a soft washcloth, sometimes
unintentionally burning him with a touch of fingers. He scratches Ray as if in intent to rip something
off of him and soothes his sensitive red skin with slow strokes.

The water all around him calms him down, too. Yet Ray's skin is strangely dry under the water like he
has been here a long while. Maybe he should stay this way. It is a nice little dream, and Ray sighs,
understanding what his subconsciousness is trying to convey. He wants to feel cared for by Norman,
be loved this close, trust him so much. Dream on.

The rhythmic scratching stops, and Ray blinks in confusion when he feels someone's breathing on his
face. Dry, chapped lips kiss him chastely like a worshiper would an icon. Even in a haze, Ray
recognizes these lips, and he responds, presses back. This one is weird. Norman of his dreams has
never kissed like this, always either agonizingly gentle or brutally forceful. As if this one isn't trying
to cater to Ray's desires.

Is he afraid?

Norman lets him go momentarily, and Ray blinks again, bewildered between a dream and reality. The
Prince's cheeks dust a pink hue when his lover appears before him, sitting on a chair near a bathtub,
naked from head to toe. That is rare, too. Ray's dreams usually replicate reality to some extent, and he
has never seen... Only once, and he tried very hard not to look, to be entrapped by him back then.
And now he wants a taste of the pale snow that is Norman's skin.

But why is he naked? Not that Ray doesn't appreciate it...

"Because you ruined my favourite blouse." Norman responds, lacking the appropriate irritation in his
voice. Again, the reply doesn't answer any questions.

Wait, did he say it out loud?

"I'm sorry... I never meant to ruin anything of yours."

"I wish you did."

What?

Ray rubs his eyes, trying to dispel the fog blocking his comprehension, and when he opens them
again, the first and only thing he notices is Norman's white eyelashes framing beautiful, crystally clear
blue eyes. Ray is entranced with the way Norman blinks: snowflakes cover the whole sky, the whole
world with their tenderness, and Ray wants to be one with them. He wants to melt under Norman's
eyes, kiss him, be a part of his sky.

"Norman... You are so pretty."

"Is this your understanding of an apology?" Norman frowns, and his white eyebrows are so beautiful,
too. "A cheap compliment?"

"I'm sorry?" Ray tries experimentally.

"You were aware the oils were poisonous, weren't you?"

Oils?

Frustration, guards, a throne, Norman's knees, Norman-

No.

Ray’s hands go flying towards his neck. A neckerchief still covers it securely.

"Finally." Norman sighs, relieved to see familiar fury in Ray's gaze. "So you were, I take it. What else
was there except wolfsbane?"

"Like I'd answer any of your questions, Your Majesty." Ray almost hisses at him, heavily mocking, all
innocent ramble gone like snowflakes on a particularly warm spring. "The hell it didn't work on
you?!"

"Calm down." Norman says as he rolls his eyes and sits closer to Ray's side. The Prince tenses when
the King starts massaging his head. "There's still some left in your hair."

"I can do this myself."

"Yes, you can, you big baby." Norman clicks his tongue, caresses Ray's bangs, and lifts them. The
only resistance he receives is Ray's squinted eye, unused to the light. "Let me take care of you."

Ray isn't sure whether he enjoys the feeling of Norman's fingers on his scalp, rubbing soap on his
shoulder-length hair, on the back of his head, behind his earlobes, slow, methodical, thorough.
Soothing. Gentle. Too intimate.

It is wrong to give him control after what he has tried to do.

It is tiring to be on alert for every living moment of Ray's life. His eyes are wide open when Norman
pours water on his head, washing the soap away. This tender stranger laughs quietly when soap very
predictably hurts Ray's eyes; the Prince wrinkles his nose, trying to be rid of the pain.
He sighs, exhausted. So much hot water is wasted on him… It soaks into the silks of his neckerchief.

"Vervain," Ray says, giving up.

"What?"
"And belladonna."

Norman hums in thought, doing his favourite trick of trying to rip all the answers from Ray's eyes.
The Prince feels a gaze on his face and rubs his eyes diligently, covering, instinctual.

"Why vervain?"

This is going to be embarrassing.

"I thought you might also be a..." Ray huffs, endlessly irritated with himself. "A vampire. You have
this sinister blood fetish, and I... Don't LAUGH. If werewolves exist, then vampires should, too!"

Norman really doesn't want to humiliate Ray any further, yet he still doubles down in exploding fits of
laughter, almost boyish, expressively loud, unrestrained, tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and
Ray looks at him, really looks at him. It is unfair how much he can forgive if only Norman laughs like
this.

"If vampires really do exist, I fear I've no knowledge of them." Norman's words are formally stiff, but
his form is rigid from suppressed giggles, and he exhales visibly, calming down his breathing. "But
you were right to use wolfsbane. In theory. It actually could have killed me if I wasn't immune to such
toxins."

Ray allows Norman to hold a washcloth and rub his body again. He tries to concentrate on the reasons
for why Norman would be immune to wolfsbane and belladonna for that matter. Natural resistance?
Norman’s fingers brush against Ray's nipples. Did he torture himself with small portions of it since
childhood? He strokes Ray's abs, meticulously, unintentionally sensual. Did someone else make him
do it? Norman caresses Ray's hip bones, touching skin through a measly washcloth.

"What are you doing?! You are interrupting my... thought process!" Ray snaps at him, understanding
where these fingers could go next, and he is having none of it.

"And what are you thinking?" Norman asks carefully and raises his hands in a universal sign of
surrender. He soaks a washcloth in a bucket full of clear hot water and touches Ray's elbow, silently
seeking permission in his eyes. Ray nods a weak yes.

He thinks that he nearly died in vain.

"I'm wondering why you saved me." And why Norman is washing Ray like a royal attendant would.
He doesn't say that part aloud.

"Why?" Norman blinks at him, stops his touches, a massive question in his eyes. "I didn't save you."

"You know what I'm talking about."

It is always such a bother to communicate with him. He never answers anything substantially.

"But I mean it. I simply washed your body from toxins. You recovered on your own." Norman avoids
eye contact all of a sudden, returning to the mechanical rubbing of Ray's inner elbows. "I was afraid
you wouldn't wake up."

That explains this strange kiss at least. Without warning, Norman's hands move higher to caress the
Prince's inner wrist, and Ray closes his eyes in silent pleasure. Norman's fingers as if only by chance
caress the lines of protruding blue veins like knives with the power to slice them open and with an
obsessed reverence watch the red blood pour into the hot water...
Ray flinches and wants nothing more than for these theatrics to stop already.

"I wanted to let you know," Norman says, unaware of Ray's mental blood bath, and pauses, hesitant,
quiet, guilty. "That you don't have to risk your life to scream at me that you don't belong to me. I'm
well aware of that." He sighs, and Ray has to strain his hearing to acknowledge the next words. "Don't
do this to me again."

"Why?" Ray opens his eyes wide to snatch the answer from Norman's eyes. He knows it by heart and
has rarely believed in its honesty. Yet he still adores it masochistically when Norman says,

"Because I love you."

It is an easy lie to tell, Ray knows from experience. Yet when faced with these words, it is just as easy
to believe them. Where is the border between their lies? Why does Norman pretend to love him? Do
Ray's eyes betray him when he claims to love Norman back?

Does Ray feel anything at all?

He knows how to answer all of these questions.

"Say. You didn't finish when we were..." Ray says, and Norman withdraws a washcloth from Ray's
wrists, distances himself, crosses his arms.

"Why does that matter, exactly." Norman blinks away the visible frustration in his gaze and answers
with a practiced, indifferent tone of voice. "Your disgusting oils didn't let me. I had to wash myself,
too, and it still feels like the smell is stuck to my skin like dried blood. I swear if I lost my ability to..."

"Want me to help?"

Norman gives him a crooked, insincere smile. Ray recognizes thinly veiled outrage in Norman's
barely shaking shoulders.

"No. What I want for you is to forget about me and sex, recover, and contemplate what you've done."

"But of course." Ray clicks his tongue, stares in Norman's eyes in mocking defiance. "Apologies, oh
father."

It is wise of Norman to ignore such a blatant insult. If Ray got called out like that, fists would surely
start flying.

He actually feels guilty now...

The Prince huffs and scratches at the back of his neck. Norman cannot restrain a shocked gasp when
Ray's hands start slowly unwrapping a neckerchief. Little by little, fingers quivering, breaths
laboured, head dizzy, heart in a throat, painful, terrifying. He doesn't want to know if purple marks
from Norman's fingers are still there, on his neck. They should have faded already, realistically. Yet he
has never felt this weak, this bare, this violated, and he is going to faint again.

Norman holds his palm, fingers interlacing out of habit. The little gesture pulls Ray back into reality
only for him to meet the King's gaze full of gnashing pity, pathetic guilt, and raw, sorrowful plea. Ray
doesn't need any of it. He carefully untangles his fingers out of Norman's grasp and wraps a
neckerchief around Norman’s wrist, sealing his resolve. The wet fabric sticks to the pale skin. It is
nothing symbolic… The Prince just wants to keep it somewhere safe. That is all. He closes his eyes
and raises his head high in silent encouragement.

He started it. Yet it is he who cannot stop shaking.

For a while, nothing happens. The last minute to say his prayers, to cry, to remember, to accept. When
he feels Norman's breath on his neck, he wishes to live.

Don't betray me. Don't choke, don't crush, don't snap, don't slit, don't kill, don't-

Ray is crying when Norman's lips touch his neck. They don't move an inch. Norman's breaths don't
brush against the skin. He is not even trying to breathe.

A panic attack subsides for the King stays still as a statue for a long, long while. The whole world
stops, waiting for him to do something, anything. And he does. He inhales, steals Ray's scent, opens
his mouth, and only manages to touch the neck with the tip of his tongue before he shatters. A loud,
shaky, lingering moan shocks Ray's whole body; he opens his eyes wide, absolutely stunned, and tries
to turn his neck to comprehend what just happened. Norman grabs his jaw with both hands in
response, steading him in place, and Ray nearly blacks out himself.

The Prince stifles when the King's lips start moving. They kiss, suck, lick, nibble, stop, don't, Norman
is suffocating, trying to inhale more, and Ray is sobbing, and white hair tickles his cheek, and long
fingers caress his jaw, no, yes, no.

"Glad to be of service," Ray utters, wanting to sound sarcastic; his whimpering, broken voice ruins
the effect. "That was exceptionally fast, though."

"Don't taunt me, Ray." Norman breathes the name deeply down his lover's neck. It would have been
more merciful if he killed Ray after all. "You had me on my throne like there was no tomorrow..."

"Because I really thought there wouldn't be any more tomorrow."

Norman bites his neck sharply, sucks forcefully, and pleasure with tints of absolute terror kicks Ray
between the legs, and he is trying to duck under the water-

Strong hands don't let his face even close to the escape, and Norman tears himself from Ray's neck
only to shut him with a violent open-mouthed kiss on the lips. Dazed, Ray grabs Norman's wrists to
make sure that he is real, biting nails into his skin. A damp neckerchief doesn’t allow Ray to truly hurt
him. The King breaks a kiss and says in a rush, in love,

"If you want to drown, drown in me. I won't allow anything else. After all… you've given me your
life." Norman traces his fingers along Ray's neck, and his Prince sighs, sharing their breaths,
unconsciously leaning for a kiss again. He tries to shut Norman up, letting go of his wrists to take
control of the hair on the back of his neck, and their lips crush again. The lovestruck King still
manages to deliriously utter in between the kisses,

"My treasure. So fragile. So sensitive."

Now it is Ray's turn to pull away.

"I'm not sensitive."

"Then I just have that effect on you?"

 Another trap, Goddess damn him.

Ray wants to insult him, hiss at him, heavily defensive, but instead kisses him chastely, lingers.
Follows his advice.

Jumps into the waters of his eyes and stays. Drowns. Willingly.

Norman's eyes look nothing at all like Ray's sky back at home. However, maybe it is fine. Maybe Ray
can find a new home in these blue eyes that tell him of devoted love, crashing guilt, and tales of
feelings, fleeting like warmth in this cold land.

Chapter End Notes

https://twitter.com/tiorinio_art/status/1541909778468929537?t=NTiHTmU6v0T60e-
dSmK0Gg&s=19
 Confessions
Chapter Notes

A playlist: Spotify or VK.

There's also a piano composition by Helz.

Content warning: a lot of lore explanations happening at one point.

At the end of the chapter you will find the last of Norman's letters and a commissioned
illustration by my_ce_li_um.

Congratulations to me for reaching 100k words! Thank you very much if you're still keeping up
with this fic! I will make sure the approaching ending of it will be very satisfying.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The years pass by behind Ray's eyelids, dreams, endless snowy nights; the time is pieces of Norman's
letters lost in the snowstorm, merging with the snowflakes, with the ashes of his heart, burnt by his
Prince's flames.

The time is unneeded. 'Tis forgotten just like the warmest Prince these Northern lands have ever
known.

It is lost in the kisses to Ray's lips while his eyelids are still closed—careful, so achingly gentle, so
begging of Ray to let him in—and he barely sighs, giving in to presses that are his timeless home, and
they turn to caresses of a tongue upon his upper lip, to a stop, to the quietest, most longing

"Ray."

It is gone in the worship, a long, long kiss to an icon, in the red blooming roses Norman plants all
over his neck, a gardener in horrifying love with his fragile flower, the only one alive in the freezing
North, and Ray sighs again, finally blossoming awake.

It is worthless, it disappears between Norman's fingers as he combs Ray's hair, one dark strand by the
next, massages his head with careful movements and pulls low, and pulls low, and ties the black
universe with practiced hand in a low, long ponytail, and leans lower, and kisses Ray's ear, lingers and
laughs all enamoured, as low as the ponytail, and whispers,

"I love that look on you."

Ray knows.

That is why he allows it.

He asks, "Nightmares?"

Feeling the fingers on his hair slackening, weakening, pulling off, Ray is quick to catch them and pull
Norman forward, chest to back, and kiss his nails, joints, veins, and lines of life, the life they have
stolen from the grip of fate. From each other.

Reminding him that the nightmare has already passed.

Just like…

It is another turn of an hourglass of time, another year, and Norman grips Ray by the shoulders as his
Prince traces the outlines of his eyes with fingertips, as he ties a blindfold behind Norman's head, as
he kisses him on the lips to assure that he is here, as he kisses him on the covered eyes to assure him
that he, unlike time, will never be gone.

"How long has it been?" Norman asks.

Ray wonders the same, and the months, years of talks and events pass, fragmented memories of him
fighting to smashed knuckles and purple eyes with Cislo, of Barbara and Vincent teaching him how to
fight dirty, how to think like a poor rat, of Zazie holding his hands in mute prayer to the Goddess,
scowling at him when he learns that Ray knows none, and guiding him through the teaching of the
Goddess; the memories bite him like sharpened stones to the head by a bulk man who threatened to
gut him for his daughter was supposed to die had he not intervened. The memories cry along with a
girl begging for Ray to stop choking her Father, and in the reflection of shrunk pupils, Ray saw the
northern beast he swore to murder long ago.

The Prince of the North is ruthless, black, and too much, too kind. He goes to the brothel to preach of
the unholy wrong to the clients, to comfort the women and young boys, he learns of the cloaca of
people that willingly live by the walls of the Church, one of the coldest places of the North, and
brings to their households warmest blankets and fresh food. He gets sick and still comes, and
everybody wonders whether the girl with twin ponytails, beggars, zombies of the Church, and
prostitutes disappearing have anything to do with him.

In each and every memory, he is always there. Every night, Ray would kiss him on the mouth and
clench a lax, reluctant grip on his neck, saying,

"It's been… It's been too long."

"It's not… not… not enough."

Norman says under him on an exhale when Ray obeys and trusts him.

And chokes him that much harder.

…It has always been his biggest mistake. Yet when Ray sucks on Norman's lower lip, sugar-coated so
much, so intently, Ray feels the roughness of the grains on his tongue, when Ray feels a quick pulse,
Adam's apple in a shape of a panicked heart under his scarred palms, when Ray moves his hips
bolder, raw, spasmatic, and Norman loses his voice, and gasps his name all grated, all prolonged, all
rasping when freed,

That is the memory that encompasses all

Five

Years that Ray is the Prince of North.

"Let me help you." Ray whispers in Norman's office, tucking a white lock behind his ear that
interferes with their eyes locking.

For some reason, Norman isn't meeting his gaze.

"I can take care of paperwork myself, no need to worry. There is nothing that needs your-"

"What are you hiding from me?"

Ray caresses Norman's hair and cheek with trembling fingertips, seeing him so clearly as if he is
absolutely bare before him (Ray's hands never quite stop shaking when he draws Norman half-naked.
From phantom pain, lost talent, lingering meanings, or something else entirely, he does not know).
Unlike five years ago, Ray isn't afraid to put him on the spot.

Norman rubs his face on Ray's palm to bring it to his lips and kisses it, open wide eyes and feverish
kisses drawing contours over Ray's long ago healed wounds. Just like five years ago, Norman cannot
resist him.

And hands him a parchment of paper on the table.

"Dear cousin,

I know the news has already reached you. Spare me letters with your condolences; I wish to see you
and anyone you might deem worthy bringing along to my court at the funeral of my late Mother.

I haven't seen you in five years, and I am sorry for inviting you to such a miserable event. I am afraid
this must be done… I have questions and theories that your help may provide. In person. An official
invite will arrive soon.

I dearly wish to see you. Both.

The Crown Princess of the Verhs Empire and your forgotten friend,

Emma."

Norman sighs loudly and rubs his tired from paperwork eyes, saying, "I need to ask Mother whether
we can leave for her funeral."

Ray's hands tremble, his vision gets blurry, and the parchment of paper nearly slips from his grasp, yet
the 'we' he hears is loud and clear.

After all this time, he would be free… to leave?

All these years he was the reason why some people disappeared. He escorted them every few months,
frail kids left without parents because of the Duels, strong women too rich even for the warm quarter,
and scared bulky butchers that fled from homes to the North only to find hell, he was their guide away
from the Gates, from Erlenwald, hiding them under his humongous furs, reassuring the guards that he
will be back.

Norman always let him do this little game of his. Of pretend, of being a hero.

Because Norman knew Ray would never be gone.

"Have you always needed this? Permission from your Mother to leave?" Ray asks and hums, thinking
that she must have been the one that sent child Norman to murder him when they were eleven…

"Of course."

Of course.

The answer, the mastermind is so obvious, it screams in Ray's face, who killed his loved ones, and
why the Empress died, it is all so clear, yet he needs more proof, he needs a straightforward plan on
how to enact revenge on them both.

Maybe there are more out there in the world…

Ray sighs and puts away the parchment, closes his eyes, grabs his clothes over his chest in a tight fist,
and shakes violently when it sinks in.

His betrothed Mother… died?

Her Majesty, Her Kindness, Her Graciousness, Her Radiance, Her Absolute, the one with the clearest,
wisest eyes, with a soul as wide as the horizon that always seemed so eternally free and so young…

He needs to tell Barbara… Maybe she will somehow escape alongside him to say her farewells…

"Where are you going?" Norman whispers, a tantalizing rustle of a voice, and hooks a finger under
Ray's belt, halting him in place.

"To do your chores?" Ray changes his voice to match Norman's whisper, yet it is a mocking tone of
seduction. He lies easily. "We need to prepare the horses."

"Let's do something else before that." Norman still murmurs, unaffected by the blatant ridicule, and
brings Ray closer with a finger. It is a soft inhale, not quite a gasp from Ray's lips when Norman trails
his fingers over Ray's thighs, slow, relishing, a butterfly touch. "Let's do you."

"You have such a way with words." Ray says and clicks his tongue, an annoyance in his voice and
rolling eyes. Still, a light blush and a shaky grip on Norman's shoulders give all of him away.

Light touches, a seemingly unintentional brush of fingers over inner thighs an inch lower than Ray
would have wanted, blue eyes never evading Ray's gaze... it is a spell that makes intrusive thoughts
about the impending death of a woman he could have called Mother dull.

"Ray," Norman whispers in that tone Ray despises: like his name is a pearl worth the universe, and it
is rolling in Norman's mouth, a flaunting show, a caress, a religious confession. "Sit down."

The King clears a table from the papers in an instant, and they fly on the floor, disorganized,
containing essential reports on the Church's income, detailed descriptions of who asked for what
information at the Holy Library, a list of new laws waiting for the King's approval, a huge pile of
petitions from the people of the North, everything flies away, and Norman looks at Ray as if he is the
only one that will ever matter above all else.

Ray sits down, obedient, calming himself that it is surely not the most indecent surface they have
made love on (the throne was certainly a far more questionable choice). The table is not all that
comfortable, however... Yet the view from above of always effortlessly charming, powerful, in control
Norman between his legs is unfairly worth it.
Ray expects something quick, a relief for them both, a flash of pleasure to erase the disturbing
thoughts at least for a blissful minute, yet Norman isn't in a hurry. He raises Ray's tunic and leaves a
trail of wet kisses on his abdomen, circling his navel with a tongue, whispering something Ray cannot
differentiate, and it tickles, evoking a faint giggle. Ray sucks in his stomach shakily to evade the
strange affection, and giggles fade, gradually transforming into something drawn, expecting, frantic
when Norman leisurely pulls Ray's pants from under him, kissing lower, lower, yet still so slow...

The Prince looks at him, getting used to the feeling of languid foreplay, of being thoroughly savoured
this completely, and his thoughts scatter to admire Norman's hair. Ray runs a hand through his locks,
curly, unfairly soft for a guy, the colour of the Northern snow, massages his head, gently pulling at the
roots, and Norman hums in soft pleasure. Yet suddenly he tears himself off of Ray's skin and looks
into his eyes from below,

"No touching."

Despite the gentle atmosphere and his soft voice, it sounds like an order.

Ray obeys wordlessly, bends back slightly to hold the edges of the table, and his mind still drifts away
even as Norman finally releases Ray's limp cock from his pants.

"Are you taking me?" The Prince asks, not quite in the situation at present.

"Oh, I'm taking you alright." Norman says, anticipation flickering in the pits of his eyes as he licks the
corner of his dry lip.

A rough, calloused, freezing hand strokes Ray, harsh, fast immediately, shocks with the melting ice on
a hot flesh, and it awakens him, and it chokes him, and it colours his skin all over with crimson,
baring him from inside out, making him gasp, clench his teeth, and stutter, ashamed,

"N-norman, n-"

As promised, Norman does take him. Takes Ray in his barely shaking mouth carefully, wide-opened,
a wet, hot tongue following the movement, playing with the sensitive tip, as he looks Prince straight
in the eye, confident, impish, a show-off; and it is slow, so.

damn.

slow.

As if Norman is relishing him, the taste, the feel, the absolute certainty that at least like this the Prince
will forever be his, and Ray's hips jerk on their own, please. An unimpressed, harsh stare of beautiful,
vulnerable eyes, of Norman thoroughly sucking, licking him, (fucking God), makes Ray freeze,

"I'm sorry, I didn't mea-"

The rushed words in a broken whisper turn into a husky, muffled moan, a bottom lip bitten with force
when Norman brings him closer to the edge of the table by the ass, strong, fingers bruising, raises his
Prince's thighs to circle them around his own neck, bites nails into the skin of Ray's legs, and lightly
sucks on his balls, eyes open, taunting,

s l o w.

World spinning, muscles tense, a lower part of his body immobilized, Ray squeezes his shaking
thighs, a retaliation, a revenge for torturously slow pleasure, and slightly strangles Norman as he
swallows Ray whole, deeply, inch by inch, cheeks hollow. The King's throat constricts around Ray's
cock, a hard, warm, wet pressure, and Norman's vibrating moan shoots Ray's insides, damn, damn.
Norman's eyes roll, fire spreading on the pale snow of his cheeks faster, redder the harder his Prince
chokes him; he is not breathing even as he massages Ray with his tongue, smooth, long, slow, hot,
and Ray's nails nearly scratch the wood at the edges of the table, and he cannot take it.

"Norman…"

A hoarse whimper, a plea, and Norman's gaze gains clarity, cold comprehension as he stops, raises his
head, leaving a faint trail of saliva between his tongue and Ray's twitching cock.

He breaks the connection, wipes his mouth with a sleeve, breathes heavily, face still scarlet, massages
his jaw and throat, moves away from Ray's thighs so that his Prince's legs hug Norman's neck at the
knees; he finally says, completely ignoring Ray's shocked gaze,

"Yes. I'm taking you with me."

"Are you serious?! Now," Ray nearly screams in hissing frustration as he points at his cock with a
head. "You want to talk?!"

"Yes."

A weak blink of his eyes, sluggish as if he is going to fall asleep right this second, and Ray forgets
everything but pure rage, stomps on a thumping desire to grab him by the ridiculously soft hair and
have him, his mouth so hard, piece of shit-

"Aren't you afraid I'll run away?" Ray asks in an extremely even, bored tone, and doesn't miss a
dangerous, alive spark in Norman's eyes, the only warning before the world spins and Ray's head hits
a wooden table.

"What the hell, Nor-"

Hot mouth shuts him up, eliciting a strangled pained sound of protest instead of insults as Norman
presses on him from above, Ray's legs still on his shoulders. The Prince spreads his legs further,
flexible, intending to escape, breathes easier, and bites nails into the King's chest, right where his
heart is supposed to be, hurting, pushing away with eternally weakened hands, pressing on Norman's
scars, demanding, don't corner me. Norman takes Ray by the wrists and pins with one arm on the
table above his Prince's head, kisses hard, devouring, messy, sucking on lips and tongue, and Ray
cannot bite away an embarrassing gasp when Norman trails a finger from Ray's ass to the full length
of his painfully hard, neglected cock. An electrifying shudder makes his spine curve, his naked hips
rub against Norman's clothed sides and abdomen, and Ray throws his head back, opens his neck,
accepting a hurting, sweet kiss, a sign of unconditional trust.

Norman takes him, all of him, all of what he is willing to offer.

"You won't run away from me anymore."

Ray has to admit to himself that this bastard is right: Ray really, really doesn't want to run away.

Not right now, anyway.

A hot, sultry whisper in Ray's ear messes with his mind, a flashing bomb, and it ruins him, a
detonator,
"This time, burn louder for me, my fire."

And he does.

…Ray rapidly blinks away the memory when their carriage shakes violently and throws his body right
onto Norman's chest. Dizzy after a very indecent dream, a very meaningful memory, he doesn't back
away from Norman's touches, from his freezing arms and palms in coarse mittens that crawl under his
clothes momentarily to awkwardly massage his shoulders.

"You are tense."

"I'm not." Ray bites his lip, trying in vain to relax. It is not so easy to lie, to control his muscles when
Norman's fingers trail his spine, caressing ticklishly and calming him down.

"You called for me in your sleep. As if you were in great distress. A nightmare?"

Ray barely sighs into Norman's collarbone and silently marvels at how little dots of goosebumps form
under his breath.

He wishes he could stay in that nightmare and forget, forget, forget…

"Are you worried about Maria?"

Ray doesn't answer and reflexively tenses that much harder.

"She is in a better world than ours. And... Don't be ashamed to ask me for assistance. I can help
you…"

forget.

He makes Ray forget the sorrow, the heat of tears Ray tried so hard to cover in Norman's chest, the
wretched, crashing with its burning weight, self-pity, when Norman takes his head between his palms
and kisses on the lips. Drawn, ever so sweet, biting, pecking, traveling to the chin to swallow the
running tears, Ray catches his lip between his own and wants, and wants, and wants this small relief
of oblivion that only he can bring.

Norman's lips tremble in suppressed snickers as he asks in between rushed kisses, each word is gulped
by Ray's incessant answer of his lips, and Norman half-moans, half-laughs, "What… are you…
thinking… stop, Ray, let me… thinking about?"

Ray pulls at Norman's hair and sees the green glisten of a fading Aurora, the streak, the splash on a
canvas of the northern sky, the ultimate creation of nature made with scarred, defected hands, and in
this very moment Ray stares at him as if he is the last miracle, the last Aurora, the last masterpiece he
has ever drawn, and can only utter, "Don't leave me."

He always pulls away.

Earlier, he averted his eyes and said that he had something major going on that was in dire need of his
presence. Now… he slowly, oh so slowly that their lips tingle with the taste of each other turns away
from him, hides his lips with a white mitten, and coughs, wretched with a bony hand, out of his throat
sounds, and Ray sighs deeply, closes his eyes not to see the death's breath ghosting, colouring a mitten
with the specks of crimson.
He always pretends not to see.

When they arrive, the capital is quiet. Empty. Void of the hustle of the evenings, void of human life.
As if the people decided to bury themselves along with their Empress.

As if this is a new law, Ray keeps silent, and Norman doesn't even cough anymore, his sickness is
afraid to disturb the holiness of this stillness.

The white horses leading their carriage stop before the castle, droopy, dark, seemingly alive,
brooding, kneeling with its small turrets, weeping for Her Majesty's demise.

They are escorted into the castle as a pair, His Majesty Minerva and his loyal aid that covers his head
with a cape, that always for some reason stares into the ground, avoiding stares, a dark silhouette of
His Majesty, not a person in his own right.

He doesn't need anyone but Emma to recognize him.

He thinks of himself highly, however, for no one looks at him; at the entrance of the castle there lies a
closed casket of the Empress, and everyone looks at a young woman embracing it, her shoulders
trembling just barely, her short, spiky, red hair highlighting her like a halo of a martyr. Everybody
comes, and ones brave enough lie on their knees along with her and kiss the coffin; some lay their
palms on a woman's shoulder and whisper their condolences and prayers; some stay near the walls,
afraid to come, afraid to speak, afraid to weep, and His Majesty and his shadow are amongst their
group.

Ray doesn't immediately recognize the woman as being his lost, beloved friend.

His Emma.

He cannot say whether she has grown a fair bit by only her shoulders and her black dress, too simple
and dirtied at the knees, yet somehow he sees the raw power in her cut hair, the sheer strength in her
vulnerability as she sits there, her back to the world, her chest to her Mother's coffin.

A strangled cry comes from the distance, and Emma raises her head, she stands immediately and darts
towards a group of women, all in simple, black dresses, calming down a teenage boy with eyes as
blue as deep seas, with tears as large as waterfalls.

Phill… His precious, tiny brother is now so grown up and so broken.

Ray rubs his eyes and hopes for Norman not to see…

Black doesn't suit the royal family at all.

"What's wrong?" Norman asks near his ear and hugs his shoulder.

"It's nothing… I just need to be alone. For a while."

The black figure disappears in the crowd of people; Norman trails his every move, hears clicks of his
heels, beats of his heart, like a predator, an archer, watching his beloved raven flying away in the sea
of people.
Then, in a second, he is gone, and a young woman with red, like burning forests hair suddenly
appears before Norman, loops her arm with his, and leads him away to a private balcony, all gazes on
her and her silent, dignified misery.

"Your Highness." When they are alone, he bows his head before his lost friend, still trailing the
movements of his Ray in the back of his mind.

The ballroom. He hopes the warm memories at least will be of relief to him.

"It is a great pleasure to see you." Emma says with an exhausted smile on her face, and he cannot help
but miss her old grin. Full of teeth, lopsided, silly, cackling, none of the grace and strength in it that
cover so much pain in its lassitude.

For a meager second, he misses her so much he doesn't recognize her.

"What seems to be the matter?"

His question is polite and empty, yet for some reason, it reveals the cracks in her fierce facade. She
bows her head, rocks on her heels, clicking sounds on the floor hammer his sense of where Ray is; he
furrows his eyebrows and has to stop himself from putting hands on her shoulders—whether to calm
her down or cease her rockings he does not know.

He wishes he could help. That wouldn't be appropriate, however.

"I wanted to talk to you… about my Mother. I fear you are the only person I can rely on in this matter
because I hear your Father was buried much the same way. In the… closed casket."

"I am sorry for your loss, Your Highness, but our situations differ. My Father was buried in that
fashion because I severed his head. I imagine for a proper burial somebody would have to sew his
head back, but he did not deserve a proper burial."

"I am sorry for making this all about me, but I think… Something might have happened to her body,
something worse than death. Something that cannot be shown to people. Can you imagine if you
opened your Father's coffin and it turned out to be… empty?"

"This is nonsense, Your Highness." He says, but something in him stirs in a great disturbance. "I
killed my Father with certainty, and your Mother is no Ray – she wouldn't have abandoned your
people no matter the reason." The words do not calm Emma down. He adds. "Why don't you check
for yourself if it ails you so?"

"I don't… want to see her." She says, and her face twists as if her tongue does not obey her. She
presses her lips into a thin, trembling line, yet this isn't enough for words to stumble pathetically from
her mouth. "I don't want to see my Mother's rotting corpse. So I am just panicking and suffering in
useless paranoia because I cannot for the life of me accept that she is truly gone."

And it strikes him, an unpleasant, crawling recognition, an understanding of what is going on. He
knows this. This feeling of saying and doing things that do not belong to him.

"...I hope I helped you sort through your emotions". Norman says, a bit too plain of a tone.

"Yes… I suppose… I truly am… just overreacting. I'm sorry for bringing the mood down."

Can you imagine if you opened your Father's coffin and it turned out to be… empty?
"This is alright, Your Highness." Why would it be empty?... Nonsense. Nonsense. Nonsense…

He needs to go home.

Something might have happened to her body, something worse than death.

He has to go home.

"Before you leave, there is another matter I must address." Emma says, a quiet command, dignified,
powerful, brooking no objections.

The future Empress.

"The Northern Prince is in good health. He is a delight and a menace; he watches over our people
better than I could ever have. I trust you will find him snooping around the castle, reminiscing about
the good old days if you ever need him. And…"

A knife to his throat cuts his oiled speech into grave silence.

The kitten who loves Princesses does have claws.

She is no kitten, he corrects himself.

She is a lioness.

"I trust you to take really good care of him. Otherwise..."

"There is no need for such rudeness."

He does not wish harm upon her. Ray used to cherish her… greatly.

"After all, I am quite taken with him."

"Does the feeling happen to be mutual, I wonder?"

He can only smile, bitter. Fair. Sharp.

"You'll be a marvelous Empress one day, Your Highness."

She withdraws a knife in a blink and curtsies before him, a practiced, formal, cutting gesture, and in a
blink of an eye, she turns and walks away. Norman doesn't even have to concentrate to hear her
footsteps nearing Ray's…

"My heart." She calls, and it stops him in his tracks; in the dead of the black corridors where not even
servants walk, a call from long past days tears at his heart with memories, of thoughts, regrets, of
what could have been if he stayed and hid… The always warm, always gentle nickname now sounds
so forlorn. So distant.

It traps him in the walls of right now; it reminds him that there is no turning back. That he has lost her
for good. That only the washed-away memories remain.

What did it even mean?

"My heart." She repeats when he doesn't react, now more stern, almost an order. Ray flinches at how
different she sounds… How different she is now. "Please."

The cracked tone of a plea, such a familiar note. He can almost see her young and biting her lips not
to cry when she stumbled and fell at the royal gardens. It makes him turn around.

Of course, she recognized him.

And she nearly stumbles and falls over the edges of her dirty dress when she sprints towards his chest;
she embraces him with as much despair as there was when she hugged her Mother's coffin. As if she
cannot believe what is happening, and in his arms she allows herself, at last, to be weak.

For he is alive. His dear, lost, forgotten best friend.

She cries in his chest and says something on the verge of incoherence, "Come back. I will fix
everything. I promise. Just come back to me. I can't, I can't do this, anymore, I can't…"

"Emma." He says, stroking her short hair, her name is shaking on his tongue as if this is a new one,
the one he hasn't spelled in long, long, long five years. "I'm sorry, but… I truly doubt you can
resurrect me from the dead."

"But I already did!" She cries out, and Ray hushes her, and she gulps her yell down and rubs her eyes
from tears and raises her head to look at him, so tall, even taller than he used to be, so firm, and so, so
lost. "And I'll do this again as many times as it needs to be done. Come back… Come back home."

Home…

Blue eyes, white snow, dark skies, the howling of the wolves, the Death that shares his bed and
watches over him at nights, stunning Auroras, and him, and him, and him.

He was right. You cannot run away from your home.

Ray says other things, "All these long years, I've been searching for the truth. Of my family's murder,
of my own sufferings, and I am so close… I need the truth. And I cannot find it anywhere but in the
Province."

Emma listens to him patiently and clicks her tongue, "Liar."

"Alright." His chest shakes a bit in suppressed laughter, and and it seems to ease her tense shoulders
and torso. "I would like to stay… by his side. For as long as I can. There is nothing left here for me
but you and my memories. I am sorry."

"I presume this is goodbye? You are saying farewell one last time to the both of us? Your memories…
and me. That is why you avoided me… You didn't want to do this."

"I am sorry." He says on an exhale. Even after five years, she knows him far too well for his own
good.

"Just... Promise we can exchange letters?"

He promises, and they both know the words have never been as empty.

She kisses him on both cheeks, on his nose, she covers his face with featherlight, motherly kisses,
remembering the shape of him with her lips as if this is the last time they will ever be.
She lets him go.

Norman watches him from amidst the shadows, watches him walk away, a step so light and rhythmic
he might as well be dancing as he passes to the place of their first rendezvous.

To their first dance.

He walks after him, a soundless white shadow.

"A moment, Your Majesty."

A chill runs through Norman's veins; a familiar voice, a familiar feeling that nearly turns his breaths
into feral growls, his teeth to canines, his hair to fur, his composure to tatters.

Disdain.

He doesn't turn her way.

A woman who made his love's life a living hell.

"Do you want revenge?" He closes his eyes and stops in his tracks, his back to her. "Go on. Take it."

Isabella should have figured it out by now. That Ray is here. That for all these long years he has been
the Prince of North.

That he is alive.

No thanks to her.

"Minerva... I am tired of this." She whispers in a rush as if confessing to an unbiased priest, to the
closest friend, to the person who will forever know the gravity of her sin, to the one at fault, the one
who has kept her only child safe and sound when she… "Of this blind hatred and guilt. I learned the
truth when he escaped, and... Not even the deaths of my loved ones broke me this much. All this
negligence, this hatred towards the only person left who could have ever loved me—all useless. There
is no satisfaction after revenge, Your Majesty. Just more blood sticking to your throat. I don't want to
breathe this scent anymore."

It is silent for a long while.

"I want you to take care of him. If you cannot find it in yourself to dispose of my son, I trust you've
grown fond of him." Her voice suddenly trips over itself, yet somehow Norman has no pity for this
excuse of a woman. "That is a shame. It was my duty to adore him, yet I… He deserves someone to
finally love him. I'm… glad… he has found you."

Norman storms off.

Death is too much of a mercy for this rotten bitch.

And Isabella watches him go away. To a place where his son used to dance with his dream, to whose
heart she no longer has any right.

Just a few steps and she will finally meet him again!...

She takes none.

The melody of a ghostly waltz resonates throughout the empty ballroom, and Ray closes his eyes to
hum along with it, to dissipate, to disappear in the crowd, to imagine for a blink of a second how
Norman twirls him as the lustrous gems of Norman's white jacket shine under the light of flaming
chandeliers, how they hide behind the wall and the pillar, in the shadows, in their little world where
touches on cold skin are to be expected; Ray hums so, steps so, his song and little solitary dance
reverberate throughout the empty ballroom in hundreds of giggles, of talks about Her Highness'
beauty, gossips, and when Ray takes an awkward step, his hum and rhythm interrupted for a second,

Someone takes him by the arm and twirls, and twirls, and twirls.

And resurrects his hum, the orchestra, the waltz, the atmosphere of long, forever lost ball when they
were younger and so blindingly, so utterly in love.

"Your Majesty." Ray whispers, catching the King's hand in his, allowing him to lead, allowing their
dance to drift them away to something easy, one-two-three-four, to something warm, to something he
has forgotten, to their first, to their last.

Norman cackles quietly, interrupting the hum, accepting this little game of pretend.

"Your Highness." Norman whispers and picks the tune of Ray's throaty melody.

Norman's eyes are deep, clean waters, and while just playing roles of their past selves Ray gulps all
this tenderness, the crushing, rhythmic waves of veneration, and loses sense of self when this stranger
interrupts the onetwothreefour with one little, calculated step forward, so close, so sudden, Ray gasps
and lets the singing waves wash over him, the tremble of Norman's humming lips against Ray's own,
the breach on a memory, a quiet moan that nonetheless is loud enough for the guests to murmur, a kiss
so sweet, so agonizing, it feels like their first…

Yet it is all a game, pretend and all, and no one dances, no one plays a waltz, and they are here, the
King and the Prince of North, two people different from what they are displaying.

"Did you want me to kiss you back then?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Your lower lip gets swollen so easily. I want it even more so, so I'll kiss you again, and again, and
again…"

And in this fantasy, Ray gets swallowed so easily, his back hits a nook between a wall and a pillar,
and he opens his swollen lips to ask for more, more, more of this, for lucid dreams, for their very first
scandalous kisses, for them to get carried away…

Yet all at once, he feels the salty taste of blood on their tongues, a sudden, brutal, excruciating
reminder of their actual first kiss, and Norman's chest rolls in rising fits, and he draws away in a sharp
instant,

And all is gone. Illusions, lucid dreams, painted with painful for the eyes vivid colours. Leaving only
the empty ballroom and Norman.

Dying.
Ray approaches closer and wipes away the corner of Norman's lips with a handkerchief, whispering
something almost incoherent, something desperate adults tell to naive kids and nobody believes it,
something along the lines, "It'll be fine. You are okay. We'll be alright. It's nothing. It will pass."
Norman responds with his back turned from Ray, with another coughing fit, this one longer, echoing
in the ballroom, booming against the walls of Ray's heart, beating against them to crack it, and Ray
shuts his eyes, and his knees wobble before his desire to close his ears and cover in an all-shattering
desire to escape this twisted earthquake.

It has been a year since Norman started coughing blood.

He apologizes every time, with immense hoarseness in his voice after a fit, and this time is no
different.

"I'm sorry… You weren't supposed to…" He said weakly the first time Ray caught him by the wrists
with a bloodied handkerchief in hand.

Ray is a quick thinker, and he doesn't want to run away. He analyzed quickly that this is not
contagious in any form, hence the problem lies somewhere within Norman's body…

He asked Vincent and even Cislo whether this was a common occurrence in the North. "No, I'm afraid
not" and "No, cry about it, Boss will do without your pity" were his answers.

Ray wondered about the source and begged Norman to accept the doctors' help, and every time he got
the same reply, "They will not help."

"What will, then?! I cannot watch you suffer through this! You are withering with each month, how
can I-"

"Kiss me."

That's what Ray does.

This time is no different.

In the dead of the ballroom, Ray cradles Norman's face, strokes his trembling lips, caresses his rising
and falling chest, hums into his mouth, and feels the wolf inside of Norman tear his lungs to twisted
meat and blood.

"Thank you." Norman whispers, and his grating mumble reverberates throughout Ray's body.

Ray closes his eyes and hears the orchestra, the tapping dance of the Crown Princess, the melody of
her beloved, as Norman takes his hand and leads him away, his feet intent, sidestepping invisible
crowds of people, and the moment has never felt so soothing, so… real.

He is seventeen again, and he has never felt so in love with the ballroom, with his mysterious
companion that bears the name of a dead woman, with life itself.

It feels like all of his hardships were a dream, a long, long nightmare, the borders of which he does
not comprehend, not anymore.

They arrive at a balcony they recognize too well, and Ray inhales the smell of a cold night,
comfortable and familiar, and the ghost of Norman's breaths tickle his cheek, yet something abnormal
breaks the vision of the past;
a blue butterfly amid warm winter silently flies into Ray's open palm along with snowflakes.

"You think it came from the royal greenhouse?" Ray asks quietly.

"Your hand is always so warm. No wonder you attracted it."

Ray looks at the butterfly's wings, at the blueish transparency of them like the reflection of a frozen
lake, like the colour of the sky before the Aurora is ready to break out, at how thin and fragile they
are, how it flinches in the wind, and Ray thinks he has never seen a creature more dangerous in its
beauty.

"I wish you looked at me like this." Norman still whispers, unable to shake the sand from his lungs.

And Ray looks at him. And crushes the butterfly in his bare fist.

His arm shakes, his nails dig into the skin, the sheer force of it pops Ray's veins on his wrist, and
Norman gasps, a grated, fitful sound, and the more he looks into Ray's eyes, the more his cheeks
redden a sinful red, the more his eyelids droop with a silent demand,

Crush me.

And Ray does just that.

Ray figured him out a long time ago: this pain is his gratification. His penance. His salvation.

And he is willing to grant him this two-fold.

It is dusty in the room Ray used to stay in during his visits to the Empire; it is untouched and grieving
for its beloved Prince and the times forever gone; it is all the same, colours, the lighting of the moon,
even the stagnant smell of old books; it is soft and smells of soap under their bodies when they fall on
the lone bed; it is cold when Norman's hands crawl under Ray's clothes to stroke every little bone on
his spine and shoulders.

"Aren't you allowing yourself too much?" Ray writhes, inhales in a way that sounds like ecstasy, like
agony, and like humiliation. "Wasn't this evening all about what I wanted?"

Norman's smirk only grows when his freezing hands trail lower, caressing Ray's waist and the outlines
of his hips that seem to listen to his every move and bring themselves closer...

"What do you want?"

His cold wrists are caught in between the ridiculously hot hands, and the reality spins when for once
he gives control away, and Ray lies fully on Norman, and their kiss tastes of rescuing pain and

"You."

The road back is long and steady. It is a long month they both spend reading countless books and
journals; Ray sleeps on Norman's bony shoulder, waking up all too frequently from jolts on the road
yet still staying there all the same, and tucks one of his lover's freezing hands into the bundle between
his chest and quilts. When their legs numb from sitting and lying in one position, they lend a couple
of horses from their carriage and ride forward together; they share their breaths on a first warm
hayloft they find like sneaky teenage boys who were raised in poverty, who have fallen in love for the
very first time.

Erlenwald welcomes them with open branches, welcomes them home. The wolves howl as if greeting
them from a long journey, the wind rushes the strong horses forward, the snow doesn't get stuck
between the pins of the wheels; the Northern King and his Prince have finally arrived.

As if waiting for him, into their windows knocks Ray's Raven when they traverse the land of the
Forest and near the Gates.

"What does he need?" Norman asks and looks at Raven sitting calmly on Ray's forearm with a letter
tied to his neck. Looks like Norman wants to eat him.

"It's nothing." Ray says when he sees a name, Barbara, written on the corner of the letter.

"Do you have secrets from me?" Norman leans close, dangerously close, enough to see the contents of
the letter, yet he isn't looking at them.

He stares into Ray's eyes.

And Ray gulps and makes Norman forget the question; Ray catches his gasp in between his lips, he
caresses Norman's palate with a tongue, and steadies him in place, stroking his hair and cheeks.

With empty hands. Letterless.

They part ways soon enough; the King goes straight into the direction of the Holy Church and its
vicinity for some reason, and Ray… hides his face with a cape, walks a fair distance in between the
districts, makes sure no one follows him, and goes into the tavern where Barbara lives.

There, at the counter, sits just one woman. She is not what he would expect; adorning a white, holy
gown, a white blindfold, long hair so black it almost seems purple in the poor lighting of the tavern,
straight, regal posture, and smile, so gracious and so kind that she doesn't seem alive.

Ray recognizes her as one of the priestesses of the Church. Yet why would a priestess dwell here, in
this tavern no one visits?... He asks her, just to be sure,

"Do I know you?"

"You do not, my Prince." She says with a voice of songs of morning birds Ray has lost hope of ever
hearing. He feels his cheeks getting hotter just by hearing this voice, and that feels so strange… It
must be the difference in temperature. "My name is Mujika, and I came here at the request of your
friend. The red and fierce, like a burning match woman."

And he stands there, at the entrance of the tavern, completely frozen. Is that a threat? Is she a spy sent
by the Grand Priestess for him to let his guard down?

"Do not worry. I wish only the best for you two, and no one will come to know of our little talk." She
says as if she has read his mind. "Your friend came to me with a very unusual request: she asked me
to tell you a story that not even the Holy Library might be willing to impart. A story of our world and
our Goddess. Of course, I know this may come as a lecture for you, knowing you do not believe Her
teachings; treat my story as a made-up fairy-tale then that might be of some interest to you. In
retrospect, let's put it that way."
Ray cautiously comes up to her and sits on the nearest chair; he cannot help but marvel at her beauty
that hides behind the blindfold and a heavy, warm gown, and be drawn to her, to her secrets, and
made-up stories.

If that is what Barbara has planned, it wouldn't hurt to just listen… right?

"Long ago, the Goddess chose one hundred people to serve her; they were the best humanity has ever
born, with luminary eyes and souls so pristine no hardship in the world could ever taint them.

She gathered them before her and gave them a challenge, a test, a forbidden fruit: She said She'd grant
their every wish but only at the steep price of another human's life.

You would think that among one hundred people with souls as white as Mother's milk, there would be
none willing to pursue murder, the gravest sin the Goddess has ever imagined."

"What an interesting choice of words." Ray curtly interrupts her and rolls his eyes. "If she is so
magnanimous and just, why would she even make such a concept of death and murder?"

"Death is necessary for all beings, Your Highness." Mujika barely smiles, a gesture of patronizing
kindness. "She understood that as soon as each and every person She chose killed a man as a tribute
for Her. Most of them asked for petty things: money, glory, beauty, talent; all of them asked for their
lives to be extended; one of them asked for Godhood."

Mujika shakes her head, and her eyebrows disappear behind her mask, and Ray guesses that she must
be frowning.

One asked for Godhood…

It cannot be…?

"You are thinking correctly. However, that was the only thing the Goddess could not grant for She is
One and True God. The person asking her for this… was bored. She came to believe that this world
was not for her, that she was above it, and if she were a deity, she would have done things differently,
she would have never let children like her, powerless, hungry, and deformed, be born. She would have
created a world where there is no evil, adoration, hatred, or goodness. But in order to do that, this
world would have to be burned.

I know all this because I was her friend… because I was one of those one hundred people. I was the
one tainted with the deepest, the most sacred ritual… Murder as a tribute for Her.

Most of us are still alive even to this day. We are all beautiful, tall, but all of us hide our faces behind
masks or hats because to ourselves in the mirror we are the walking dead who no longer belong on
this earth. But we spread across the world and couldn't for the good of us stop killing. It granted us
too much, it was an easy way out; we are the shadows of the great Kings and Queens, all the power of
the world is in our hands, and wars take place because the law is our will."

Ray listens to her politely, if only in ostentatious boredom; yet when Mujika tells of the hidden eyes,
he thinks more deeply:

Leuvis with his hilariously large hat.

Legravalima and her priestesses hiding their eyes behind white blindfolds.

Grandmother's eyes which he cannot for the life of him remember…

"We murdered without mercy, granting ourselves gifts of power you cannot possibly comprehend.
Some even resorted to cannibalism for it was rumoured She was more willing to shower us with gifts
this way. The Goddess did not immediately realize what She had done. When Her best men and
women, Her angels began to kill uncontrollably, the heavens turned to bloody rains, and the world
shook under Her curses. The rivers dried up, terrible diseases befell the people, and an eternal night
fell upon the world: this is how the Goddess wept, lamenting her mistake, her children. She wanted to
kill them all as Her grandiose failure."

"You mean…" Ray deathly pales and closes his mouth with a palm: he wonders if that is what was
written in the book, in the glued pages, describing the beginning of Leuvis' life. "You mean you are
the reason the world is tearing itself apart every few centuries? This is all because of you?... A bunch
of rats who were granted powers to make the world a greater place, and you!... Angels, you called it?
You are no angels! You are blasted demons!"

"Demons…" Mujika hums and turns her head in Ray's direction, peppy and overjoyed for no reason.
"What a great name, Your Highness! I have never thought about it myself, but this is so poetic and
spot on! Bravo!"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because there is a reason Her curses continue. This is Her ultimate weakness, and in the moment of
it, a portal opens to Her domain. In Her world, anyone who comes in can ask Her any wish, and She
will grant it without conditioning. You see where I am going with this?"

"I do. I also gather that she has failed to ask for Godhood multiple times. Why?..."

"She is the reason behind the second bloody curses; she was prepared to go already, but someone
knocked her off her feet and ran towards it first. Her closest ally, her demonic sister, and her love…
Who stood by her, who did everything for her, who went to live in the Empire like the royalty she
never was to manipulate the crown into a civil war for the curses to befall the earth once more…
Legravalima was betrayed by Lilith for Lilith was in love."

It sinks in.

It all makes sense now.

All the white puzzles that barely made any sense—now are a perfect picture of a world burning in
hellfire.

"My… my Grandmother?..."

"Correct. Lilith begged for forgiveness. She had become attached to a human woman named Eve. At
first, Eve, a princess (granted, quite mature and very influential at the time. She already had adult
children and was very fond of a girl with the name of Maria) of one of the biggest countries in the
world, was just a means to an end, but afterwards it grew into something painful, whole, the biggest
and deepest. During the curses, Eve nearly died of terrible consumption, and Lilith begged, wept
before her creator to forgive her sin, to forgive her brothers and sisters, to forgive Eve.

And the Goddess, horrified and in awe that even Her perverted demons are still capable of love and
sacrifice, forgave her."

"You tell me all of this but how come my Grandmother…" If she even was one, to begin with? It was
a lie that Eve and Lilith were sisters; who is he then? Who was she? Can he even begin to believe
what this woman is telling him? What is her goal? "...died after obtaining the most sacred of
opportunities?" Ray asks and rubs his temples: this is the wildest of stories he has ever heard… also
most personal and most unbelievable. Why is he listening to this still?

"In gratitude for giving Her hope, Lilith was promised a prophecy and a few words:

Your Eve will live. Except you won't.

When Lilith came out, she was reduced to ashes of her bones: talking to the Goddess reveals our true
souls, and there was nothing left of Lilith's anymore. And Legravalima loved her so very much… She
hated her so very much.

Your Highness. I was their dearest friend. I know what Legravalima is planning to do to this world:
the groundwork for the wars all across the continent and Her curses are already underway. I don't
want to see so many people suffering any longer… In the prophecy… The prophecy mentioned how
you will be the end of us. I hope the Goddess will not fail you; I cannot let you die by her hand. You
are our salvation. You are a promise of the end to our sinful lives.

There is another way. And this is you."

It is quiet after her heart-felt, made-up story. That is exactly what Ray says to her, "Thank you for the
entertainment. I was plenty amused. But… If, hypothetically, I were to be a part of this story's
ending… I wish to say I want no part in it. I am a poor ruler and an even more pathetic person. After
your story, I don't even know where my roots lie. I don't believe in Gods, and right now I am setting a
plan for my own fate in motion. I am no salvation to anyone; the only one I long to save is…"

She listens to him patiently, with the smile of a Mother-Goddess on her lips: soothing, understanding,
and so kind. The one he was always looking for in other women: Emma, Maria, Grandmother, and
now Mujika. The one he tried but never could find on his Mother's lips.

"Very well. Do as you wish. I will not deter you; if you have to run from the world burning itself in
hellfire… I can only pray for your happiness with… whoever it is you long to save."

They part ways. Ray leaves with a foreboding feeling of close doom at hand, with euphoria, and great
anticipation of the Royal Duels where Norman and he will have to fight until one of them falls and
will not stand once more.

It has been five years since the last ones.

This time… He knows what to do.

"Want me to tell you a secret?" Norman once asked him at the Duel Grounds and then tapped his
abdomen with the edge of the sword as if to say you are dead.

"Secrets? From me? Norman, you jest." Ray nearly sent himself into gales of giggles when he thrust a
blade to Norman's stomach, and his opponent easily sidestepped the blow and tapped Ray's neck with
the edge as if to say you are dead.

"I can help you win against me. If only you accept a meager piece of advice from me."

His leg. You are dead.

"Fine. Fine!" Ray threw his blade to the ground and sat on his ass, furious and all too eager, too fast,
to give up. "What is it?"

Norman bristled at the sight and tipped his chin with the edge of the sword, making him look up at
Norman, and he tapped Ray's lips with a gloved hand as if to say you are dead.

When Norman pressed on his lower lip and kissed him deeply, brazenly explored his mouth like he
was the sweetest poison, and made him moan, quiet, yet enough for Norman's knees to buckle and
him to fall on his knees near, Ray thought he would have died a thousand deaths if that was his end.

Norman looked into his eyes and said, hushed, rushed, and breathing in his scent, "I am the wielder of
the crown and all the swords bend to my will; the only thing that will ever wield me is your gaze."

His gaze…

Norman's eyes are colder than winter, as transparent as timeless blackholes surrounded by the thickest
ice; Norman's eyes admit defeat when Ray all but meets his gaze.

On a fated day, the whistles, the words of humiliation are thrown into his back; the bets are not even,
the whispers, the "he is a dark horse, yet he will lose", all point the favour of the public to Norman's
figure.

The tribunes moan and welcome the only son of their beloved Grand Priestess, their true King, and
leader. The one who'll kill, kill, kill, is echoed all around the Duel Grounds for their pleasure, for their
revenge, for their money bet on him.

In the blade's reflection, the young Prince sees his angel's eyes, and he will never fall into the blue
abyss of them again.

"Do you remember all those years I crumbled before you? As I watched you strangle me when my
palms were shreds of skin, as I begged of you to claim me to feel life again, as I adored you like you
were my lost God, as I killed you whenever you beseeched me, as I swallowed your words of love
and in return I let you maim and ruin me? I will ask you again, as I did many times in the past: do you
regret what you've done to me?"

The demon standing before him shows no sympathy, no remorse.

No love.

Just like five years ago…

This is not him.

The crowd boos in unsuppressed interest at his speech; the bits and pieces of it are thrown into the air
and are discussed with vigor: what has he done? swallowed words of love? killed him? maim and
ruin, murmur, murmur, murmur.

It all begins when the Grand Priestess bares, gnashes her canines in unabashed fury, and Norman
attacks first.

Wild, with hunger, with power so raw, with the speed of a beast, he aims to impale Ray on his sword,
into his heart, he strikes slantwise the space where Ray's neck is supposed to be, sure to behead him,
he thrusts, he misses, and Ray looks, and looks at him, a shadow of his self, into his eyes that predict
his every move.

Norman bends his knees and stares into Ray's legs, just a second—and Ray jumps, avoids the slash,
and lands back on the ground to meet Norman's eyes staring at his neck– successful block, if only just
a tad too late. The edge of the sword, his hissing canines, they overpower him, they bend him back,
they threaten to slice his neck to raw meat–

Ray meets his eyes and sees duress and pain.

Their blades screech, and Ray knows that he has won.

He darts down, and Norman's body falls on him, surprised, how dare you use my trick against me;
Ray looks him in the eye, one moment, calculated, and Ray kicks him in the ribs.

And Norman doubles down, he gasps, and he cannot inhale again; he wheezes, he coughs blood on
the pristine of snow, his lungs and throat give up, and Ray pushes him on the ground, one shove, and
he is down on his knees, barely breathing.

Ray knows that he has won.

But at what cost…

What made him so, so weak these past few years?...

Ray doesn't do anything when Norman's fits of cough cease, and he stays there, seated, a head bowed
low. Ray tips his chin with the edge of the sword, making him look, and whispers,

"You are dead."

As if.

Norman takes the sword with his two bare hands, cold skin holding the sharpened edges, drawing
blood, and snatches it, throwing it far, far away. Ray barely recovers from the shock and jumps away
from the thrust to his knee, and then he scoffs and meets Norman's eyes.

And then he smites Norman's bloodied palms with a foot.

The blade flies far, far away.

And Norman stares at him, small, defenseless, bare, with twisted fingers, from cold, from pain, and
from betrayal, and Ray just has the utter guts to

outstretch his hand and say,

"Rule this kingdom with me."

The thoughts that do not belong to him seethe in fury, they scratch inside his ear, they yell and howl,
they scream How Dare He, Who Does He Think He Is, I'll Murder, Oh, I'll Make Him Beg For Death,
I'll Make His Life A Living Hell.

And Norman shuts his eyes, he shakes his head, he gulps, and barely exists, and

outstretches his weak, his bloodied, broken hand.

And no one has to die today.

It has been a week since Norman's loss.

Since Norman's disappearance.

Vincent has told him everything is fine, that he is kept inside the deepest dungeons of the Church and
is treated for his wounds and broken hands carefully.

"Dungeons? Why would there be dungeons in the Church?"

Vincent just shrugs his shoulders, and something cold is slithering inside Ray's stomach.

Ray hopes Norman isn't tortured there as punishment for his defeat.

He will know soon enough for it is in the Church where the new King is crowned.

It is quiet in the Holy Church.

Quiet like after the most gruesome of murders; quiet after the body falls, void of spirit, thoughts, and
life; so quiet the world has stilled and perished along with the body that once was a man.

It is so quiet Ray thinks it is him who has been killed.

He feels the heat of the floor that threatens to burn his soles and heels, of the walls that shrink on him
and seize him in their hot grip; the sounds of his steps closing on the high scene echo and ricochet and
pierce his ears and mind; at first, he thinks he is all alone in his scorching, his personal hell.

It is hard to breathe when he appears.

The steps Ray takes to the scene where he is standing click and announce the first moves of their
dance. Ray wonders how it will go: will Ray have to bow before him? Will he himself entrust the
crown upon his head?

Yet Norman is standing, a shadow covering his face, and doesn't move, and doesn't look at him.
Stands there, a hollow statue made of glass and shattered ice, and Ray steps onto the scene, knowing
that he oughtn't be here.

The one crowning the new King is the Grand Priestess. Not the former dead King.

Why is he here.

Something… something is wrong.

Three pairs of hands tackle him from behind and make him kneelbefore their true King. They twist his
arms behind his back, press on his spine with a foot, grab a fistful of his hair, and bow his head, so
low he doesn't see Norman approaching.

Slow.
Steps holler, scream in his face, scratch his brain, his sanity until they stop, until they halt before him,
until he sees the boots, until Norman mirrors him, and slowly, so, so slowly, a graceful falling angel,
kneels before him too.

Is this… some sort of ritual?

Ray tries to take control of his neck and look into his eyes, at least for a form of explanation.

His eyes are the most honest, most expressive, after all.

What he sees takes away his pride and hope, it makes him sweat and tremble in feral, so familiar fear.

He sees a beast, the eyes of a northern wolf, filled with such a bitter, all-consuming nothing Ray
shivers and avoids his eyes.

He screams when a voice, female, low, operatic, laughs inside of his mind, burning embers jumping
inside of his brain, and at this moment he knows.

He has lost.

"It was so moronic of you to think I'd ever let you go. To think I'd give you power. To think you'd win
over my son. To think he is even capable of loving—what a word!—you."

The voice grates over his spine, it breaks his bones and makes him howl in agony, it laughs, it enjoys
him, it watches over him, it gives him hell, and Norman is looking, looking, looking, and Ray bites
his tongue not to scream for him to help for now he…

"I've waited for so many years. So many attempts, so much waiting. I've had enough. My boy will end
this now."

He wouldn't do that.

"You don't say?" Another laugh. "Tell him, my boy."

No…

"I hate you." Norman says, mechanic, dispassionate, brutally, finally honest.

He closes in, draws a knife, and rests the edge of it over Ray's neck, decisive, unhesitant.

Such a familiar knife… Ray thinks, intently looking at the obsidian knife engraved with black onyx
stones.

And the world crumbles when Ray meets his eyes.

Cold, uncaring, empty. So unfamiliar, so ridiculously void, so empty… He has never looked at Ray
like that.

Never.

That is not him.

"I know you do. But you'd never do that." Ray utters through clenched teeth, hissing, not a dare but а
bare, bold fact. "My love."
The words resonate like a choir through the walls of the Holy Church.

My love…

my love…

love…

And something breaks in Norman's eyes, a piece of ice in them shatters, singed by Ray's fire, and it
leaves him with salty waters, a shaking grip over a knife, and words, quiet, so quiet, so honest, Ray
wants to hold him in his arms and tell him that it'll be okay, it's not his fault, it's not-

"I… I'm sorry. I-I… can't."

A hand from behind that grabs his hair slowly, but surely moves Ray's neck away from the knife…

"I know, my love." Ray whispers, sweet and almost defeated. Norman flinches, shuts his eyes, and
shakes, and shakes his head. "Guys!"

And then it happens all at once: the hands of Zazie, Vincent, and Cislo let him go at once, Norman
rolls his eyes and falls in Ray's embrace, and she is screaming,

"I thought you were all loyal to my son!"

"What a pity they are not loyal to such a bitch." Ray stands on his two trembling feet and slaps
Norman on the cheek for it is not the time to doze off right now!

"Fine. I always knew I'd need to be the one to finish you off."

"Ray!" Vincent screams as all three of them cover the pair's sides. "You have to run. Right. Now.
We'll cover you."

"That's right, loser. Protect the Boss for us, would you?" A sleazy voice tries to sound tough, yet Ray
looks at Cislo's back, shaking and wide, and knows that is all an act.

Zazie barely sighs and presses on certain points of Norman's neck which instantly makes the former
King wince and gasp in awakened pain.

Ray nods at Zazie and gets a single nod back. A conversation with their eyes, a secret from the rest of
them, a silent thanks.

And Ray takes Norman's weakened palms and sprints.

They stop at the entrance of the Church when a sleazy voice behind their back screams.

Ungodly.

Inhumanly.

"NO!" Norman cries out and darts to run towards his friend, impaled on five long, like trees, bloodied
nails of his own Mother.

"No." Ray doesn't stutter and pulls him only forward. "Run!"

In shock, obedient, Norman follows and leaves his only friends to their fate.
They run so fast the snow beneath their feet turns to dust; the wind pushes them back and clogs their
breath so much they suffocate; they persevere, Ray yells, Norman nearly falls face-first into the dirt,
and it takes a precious minute for Ray to sprint into the tavern to gather the supplies, and the Gates
open before them, a favour to the former Prince for saving people out of the Province now granted,
and Ray hears Death chipping at their heels when the Erlenwald bristles and closes them with their
branches.

They meander in the Forest for an hour, deeper, colder, and no one dares to attack them, and even
Erlenwald seems to howl in utter fear for their lives, they don't have time, they don't have time-

Yet Norman stops in his tracks, and Ray nearly sprains his arm when his run is curtly interrupted.

"Ouch, ah... What's wrong?"

"No one is following us." He says, detached and empty, so empty again. "It seems Mother decided to
stop her pursuit in the Forest. It… loves me. It was my only parent. It will trap and kill anyone who
dares to defy me. And…”

As if to prove his words, Ray hears them.

Howling of the northern wolves and screams somewhere on the edge of the Forest.

And silence.

“I'm not… I'm not running any further."

"What?... What do you mean?"

"Leave me." Norman nearly growls, terrifying, threatening, pathetic. "Leave me here to die."

"Do you even hear yourself?!" Ray intrudes into Norman's space, and Norman immediately averts his
eyes. "Don't give me this nonsense when we are so close to escaping! Where is my Norman? Come
back to me, you, you little arrogant bastard. This isn't like y-"

Norman screams his lungs out, each word carving into Ray's skull with nonsense, nonsense,
Nonsense.

"Blame me. Despise me. Remember that the only thing I ever did over and over in my entire life was
betraying you. Abusing you. Manipulating you. Assaulting you. How cruel I was to you. I've never
loved you; you've always disgusted me. I still wish I could kill you."

I've never loved you

Disgusted me

My fault?

"Then kill me."

A weak gasp, round lips, stiff shoulders, a tree that bites the spine even through the thickest of
clothes, Ray pushes Norman against a solid surface, watches how he hisses in misery and defeat when
Ray discards a knife out of Norman's hidden pocket. The obsidian knife engraved with black onyx
stones is put into Norman's bitten by frost hand, and Ray thrusts his neck against it, inches from
impaling himself on it, and Norman shakes and betrays all of his thoughts with a single, terrified
sigh.

Ray pretends not to notice as Norman retracts his hand away from Ray's neck; Ray catches him by the
wrist and nearly draws blood when he yells,

"What is the meaning of this knife then? If you harbour only ill feelings towards me, then murder me
just like you've always wanted with this knife that nearly pierced the skin of your neck five years ago.
I thought for sure I'd lost it… Why, if you've always wanted me dead, why did you keep it? Why are
you still silent? Why aren't you doing anything? Why did you say these abominations of lies to me?!
Why is it always lies and lies and lies and lies with you?!"

Norman doesn't answer, doesn't do anything, and shakes, and shakes, and meets Ray's gaze.

His eyes are always the most expressive, most honest. The ice, the terror, the absolute trauma in them
melt away into crashing tenderness when Ray leans closer to him, the cold edge of the steel bites into
his skin, and whispers into his lips,

"For once in your wretched life, be honest with me. It'll be so easy. Just apply a fraction of your wolf
force, and it'll be done. You can go home then. Your Mother would be so unholy overjoyed. Kill me
just like you've always wanted."

…And nothing happens.

Ray sighs, and victory brings him no joy. It brings him only Norman, blank, void of nothing but pain
and tears that freeze his core from inside out, and Ray kisses his wet cheeks and calls him moronic for
crying for it is even colder like that, and whispers, and whispers, shattered words amongst weeps of
agony,

"I've figured out a long time ago you are not to blame…" Ray continues. "You were a mindless tool to
groom, to manipulate. No matter how sick you were to me, I never stopped caring for you, and that
terrified me."

"Why?" Norman barely whispers.

"I cannot lie about it anymore, either. I cannot run away from it."

A long, long, long pause.

"I love you."

…And Norman shudders so much as if someone whipped and beat him to a bloody pulp. He closes
his eyes, shuts his mouth into a thin line, and makes a move to escape from Ray's tight embrace
against a tree.

"Don't you dare run away from this! I won't allow you! Listen to me. I love you. I love you in a way
that breaks my spirit; in a way that makes me wish I was never born if there in the world was no you.
In a way that I forget how to breathe when you all but touch me. Even if tortures me, even if I have to
die for you, with you, by you. Even after all these years I… Please. Let me… let me love you."

"N-no. No. No-no-no-no-no."

How could you love a monster like me.

You are lying to me.

You always have.

…are the answers that spill along with Norman's tears.

"Listen to me. I beg of you. Please, listen, my abhorrent monster."

A sudden cackle, a coughing fit that for once doesn't leave his lips bloodied, and Norman sniffs just
once and listens.

"It is hard for me to say when I fell in love with you. Perhaps it was at that ball when I saw you,
distant but so beautiful… But it seems to me that I would never have loved you so much if I hadn't
known you naught but young and lost but kind, bright, and supportive. And then after a while, when I
met you again, I saw that child in you. This abandoned child who clang to me in his sleep, who
carried the sin of murder on his shoulders, who loved me so dearly, so foolishly, he betrayed his
family for my smile.

There, once, I was in love with the illusion of you, and that is what I always thought it was. But you
are that child, Norman. I've never stopped loving you.

It only grew worse: when you told me I am your sun, when I learned the truth, when you tore my
wings to pieces so I wouldn't escape, when for the first time we tasted each other, belonged to each
other, it twisted, it deformed into something atrocious, so ugly, I barely recognized what it was.

Yet I look at you now, broken, twisted, deformed, atrocious, so pathetic I barely recognize you, and I
know that in this pain, in this suffering, in this shattered reality of yours, in this deformity, in the
saltiness of these tears, there is my love.

I will never abandon you; in your beauty, in your absolute wretchedness, in your desire to die by my
hand, in your broken child, I find beauty beyond comprehension. I love every part of you. I love you.
I love you. I love you."

And Norman falls on the snow, broken kneecaps and soul, and he hugs Ray's knees, and he is crying
so much, so out of control, he doesn't comprehend when, how, why Ray falls on his knees too and
says, hoarse from talking, hoarse from confessing too much,

"The Goddess put me on earth for the sole purpose of loving you."

The kiss Ray bestows upon him is frenzied, salty, and so good. It is liberating, honest, and so gentle,
so much, all at once, a memory of blood on their tongues disappears for this kiss is so real, so fragile,
just like their lives in each other's hands, just like a knife that lies buried in the snow, it feels like their
very first.

Another kiss, from another reality where both of them don't speak in twisted lies and taste the blood
with every tender kiss. Where both of them can be for once at peace with one another.

"So?" Norman asks when the waves of hysterics soothe in the afterglow from Ray's confession. "How
did you pull that off?"

"What did I pull off?" Ray laughs quietly and messes with a bonfire with a stick as if to gather his
thoughts together.
"Everything. From my defeat at the Duels to how you managed to survive my… my Mother's attempt
to kill you."

Ray sits and doesn't move a muscle as if he hasn't heard a thing Norman asked of him. Then, he sighs
and starts, uneasy,

"This is going to be a very long story."

"I'm willing to listen for as long as you need."

Norman tucks himself into Ray's arms, puts his head onto Ray's chest, and everything stills when even
the Forest seems to acutely listen to Ray's heart and his speech,

"It didn't take me long to understand that your Mother was the mastermind behind my family's
consequent deaths. She was trying to eradicate the root that the prophecy mentioned."

"The prophecy… It's…"

"You don't need to tell me. I know."

"No. I don't think you do." Norman says just above a whisper, and the trees of Erlenwald bow their
branches to listen to him closer. "The prophecy truly was the reason your whole family and yourself
nearly died. When for the first time I defeated my Father—I think I was only eight back then—my
Mother called for me and told me of the prophecy. She deemed me worthy of sacred Knowledge; it
was everything I've ever wanted. Her trust, her reliance upon me, her sweet words, her love. The
Knowledge foretold that someone—a kin of a particular woman, apparently your Grandmother—was
to destroy the northern blood. That someone was to uproot my whole family, the whole of the
Province, that I would be the last one standing. That's what Mother told me over and over. That I'm
special, that I need to save everyone, that I have to deserve the honour of being her son, that I'm soon
to rule over our glorious nation, that I must protect her at all costs, that she'll do anything for
revenge…"

Norman coughs, interrupted, dry, bloodless as if he cannot, he must not continue, and every time he
tries to utter another word, something in him grates nails over his lungs and throat.

She has full control over the beast inside of him; he cannot continue, he never told Ray anything
substantial because her hands that sew his lips, his vocal cords together, are at his mouth, Ray thinks
and covers a tortured sight of it with his lips.

It stops. Thankfully, it still can be stopped.

"Revenge…" Ray hums. "For some reason, it was vitally important for her that you'd kill me with
your own hands. I don't know her reasoning behind this, but the Duels and the coronation prove this.
Revenge is an interesting word you stuttered there; I think… I see something in my dreams
sometimes. How your Mother was involved somehow with my Grandmother."

"Involved? You mean… It can't be. My Mother never left the Province, and she always… She's about
the same age as your Mother, how can this… Are you sure those are not just dreams?"

"No. Those are not just dreams. And Legravalima is much, much older than you think she is. That's
why she was willing to wait… She's patient, and she needed you, and only you, to kill me. Because
my Grandmother dared to love another."
He tells Norman of special kinds of people, granted the privilege to live longer in exchange for a
tribute to the Goddess.

"I think… Leuvis, Legravalima, and even my Grandmother were these people. Special… not humans.
More like demons."

Norman only bites his lip and decides to listen further.

"I wanted… to run away with you. For a long while now. But if you were to be King still, you
wouldn't have abandoned your land, your people. You wouldn't have believed a word from me. I
needed certain proof that your Mother is vile, that the only thing she did was manipulate you into
killing me. I learned of the coronation from Vincent; that new Kings are coronated by the Grand
Priestess' hands in a holy ritual. That was to be her perfect chance to murder me, I thought. What I
didn't realize was her ability to mind control you so completely…

I conversed with everyone after your defeat at the Duel; Zazie, Vincent, and even Cislo told me they
were to capture me during the coronation. I revealed my plan to each of them; I persuaded them I was
to run away with you if they helped us escape. I told Zazie how the Goddess brought us all together, I
recited mantras with him, I told him that he didn't have to follow anyone's orders any longer. If the
worst comes to worst, what would he choose, an order from the Grand Priestess who represents his
deity or his own best friend's happiness? It was a risk. I bet correctly.

Vincent was on my side from the very beginning. Legravalima was certain of his loyalty to you; turns
out, it extended to me as well. He's always despised the very thought of her, and he has thought I'd be
the one who is to guide you from her influence. She turned you into a puppet, and the first time he
saw light in your eyes was when you rescued me from Erlenwald. It was a risk. He bet correctly.

Cislo… was the hardest to persuade. I'm sorry… He… for the longest time, he thought he and only he
was worthy of your heart. You know, I even fought with him for you… But once, he came to me and
told me his story. How his family raised from slumps to the warm quarter only thanks to Legravalima;
how his Father had to die on the Duels for this, how much he was indebted to her that this brought
him and you that much closer… And how much he despised her for torturing you with the werewolf
gift. He told me of the way he held your hand when you screamed and all of you twisted into feral
madness during your first transformation.

He said you never held his hand just like you hold mine; he said you never looked into his eyes; he
said the only one delusional and begging for happiness in your arms was him and him alone. And that
now he wishes only for yours.

That he'd die for you even if that's what it takes. …I miscalculated gravely. And I'm… so, so, so
sorry."

Norman makes a strange sound between a strangled howl and a cry full of despair.

"I'm with you. My love. It's okay. I understand." Ray coos and lulls Norman's quiet suffering to sleep.

Norman's shoulders shake and tense at the words my love.

"I thought… I lost the only person in the world who was able to love me, and I could never
reciprocate, could never understand that. And there was nothing to love me for. And… no one. Not
anymore."

"I love you. It's not your fault. It was never your fault. He's… in a better world than ours."
Norman only laughs in between hiccups, "Alright, this isn't helping."

"I know."

And kisses his every little tear, and whispers, whispers, not, not, not your fault.

They share a bonfire, one quilt, one space, quiet breathing of Ray's sleep as Norman scribbles and
scribbles something on a parchment of paper…

"I'd burn down everyone if I knew this fire could warm you up." Norman whispers, a tad delirious
from a lack of sleep, and Ray laughs warmly, thinking it a sweet jest, and kisses him that much
sweeter.

The road out of Erlenwald is full of quiet confessions, deep secrets, and shared in between reading a
letter warmest kisses.

The road out of Erlenwald is too short for they encounter someone right at the border of the Forest.

Someone Ray doesn't recognize immediately. Dark skin, even darker eyes, simple clothes, a lopsided
grin, a lanky posture, and stars in his whole fragile, forever hopeful gaze.

"Don?..." Ray mutters, not believing his eyes. "Don! Is that really y-?!"

That excruciatingly familiar someone crashes into him full-force, at least a head taller, and Ray loses
his breathing, he forgets anyone but Don, so utterly, so ridiculously warm that it brings tears to his
eyes, the warmth of such kind he has totally forgotten, of such power he isn't certain anymore whether
it is an embrace or a silly fight.

"I am so glad ya're alright." Don whispers and squeezes his body even tighter, so much so Ray thinks
he hears his own bones crack.

Ray wants to say something in return, but Don lets him go as quickly as he grabbed him and in a daze
stares at a place where Norman is supposed to be.

Damnation.

Norman.

"Excuse me, dear sir." Don whispers, a reverent note in his voice, clutches Ray's shoulder, and drags
him further, away from seething Norman, cheeks burgundy from the remains of the northern cold,
fury, and poisoned jealousy.

Certain that Norman will not hear him, Don gulps and mumbles, "My man, my friend, my brightest
star, who is that pretty thing?"

Ray can only snort, thinking that, of course, Norman has heard and will hear everything, "My royal
boyfriend."

And Don can only utter, "Oh."

Norman crosses his arms, a show-off, and Ray swears he hears wolfish warning growling, yet of
course, no one is making any weird sounds when they come near him.
 Ray is smiling, suddenly so pleased how Norman can be so deadly jealous. It feels so good to be for
once the one worthy of…

…He crashes this thought before it can be born.

Cislo deserves more than this selfish, senseless egoism.

"I'm Don, Yer Majesty." Don bows deeply before Norman, one hand on Ray's shoulder still, and Ray's
eyebrows rise in silent question. He'd think it unusual for Don to bow before anyone at all. "Thank ya
for taking care of my friend in the Province. I was the one who escorted him to the edge of the Forest
five years ago."

"Oh, no need to thank me. It was him who took care of me, after all." Norman answers, polite but
detached, analyzing eyes as if he is trying to find a weakness or hidden appeal in Don's appearance.
He looks at Don's hand like he is trying to freeze it with his stare, and Don doesn't take a hint. "And
please, do not call me Majesty. I am no longer of royal-"

"Do we need to get engaged for you to stop with this?" Ray curtly interrupts him and silently marvels
at the way Norman's eyes flare up in silent, hidden feelings, his whole stature tenses up, and his
cheeks glow a shade of pretty red. "I told you. If I'm to be King, I want you to be with me, sharing the
throne. It was to be my first decision as a King."

"I feel I shouldn't be listening in on this conversation…" Don mutters under his breath, yet his voice is
booming enough so that Ray hears him and laughs out loud.

No matter how good it is to finally see him after so many years of separation, something is still
bothering Ray as his laughter dies down and brows furrow when he says, very slowly,

"What are you doing at the border of Erlenwald?"

Don looks him in the eye straight on, and his voice shakes, and his eyes shake, and the world shakes
like an intricate glass toy with artificial snow in it, and everything is so fake, so broken, so unreal
when he nearly whimpers,

"I came as an urgent messenger from the Empire. I was closer, and I had stronger horses, and I'm, I'm
so sorry, Her Grace told me-"

"Get to the point." Norman interrupts, and his voice starts swimming, and Ray loses balance, and
falls, and falls, and hits the ground after Don says, so weak, it is barely his voice at all,

"Her Royal Highness, Emma, died."

Chapter End Notes

A letter the King-Prince finally got to read

My love,
I once called you my sun. I told you I would have devoted a religion to your name and being;
turns out, I did more than that.
I killed myself for only a promise of your light.

Do you know the tale of a boy who fell in love with the sun? But of course, you do, you little
bookworm who spent more time looking into the pages of the books in the Holy Library than
into my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if the story was written with me in mind; if it was another
prophecy that foretold that I would die, my feathers burned to white ashes, falling, eyes blinded
by your light, skin scorched, and I would thank you for that. For this pain, for this betrayal, for
this long fall, for the last image of my life being you, you, you…

You told me you love me with so many words, and all I did was cry, dirtying your knees, your
mouth, your very soul. I couldn't say a thing to you but "why" and "I'm sorry"—I've always been
not the most eloquent speaker. However, now that you sleep on my shoulder, bundled so close to
me near a bonfire in the middle of the Erlenwald and who knows how much time we have left
until Mother or Whoever it is that dwells in the forest finds us… Now, I have found my words.

I love you. I've always loved you, from the very first moment I laid my eyes upon you. When we
were naught but children, when you were so, so brave to look me in the eyes, when in the years
we'd been apart all that kept me alive was a memory of your warm, black eyes, and your hand in
mine, when you first appeared before me, young and so unabashedly beautiful you lit the
ballroom with your presence, when you first kissed me and I felt your blood on my tongue, when
you first moaned my name as if I was your God saviour, it is nothing before all this guilt that
crept inside my heart, that it was me who killed your loved ones and I had the utter gall to
miserably tell you that it wasn't your fault. Of course, it wasn't.

It was mine.
All mine.
Always.

I thought it was alright if you lied to me that you loved me. I thought my egoistic love was
enough for the both of us; I thought if I loved you, it would be enough for you to forgive me
even if it took me years of waiting.

It all came crashing down when my Mother told me that this was all a lie. All my musings and
sufferings, my love or my family, all these years, all these deaths, all these mistakes, this
prophecy that foretold my and my family's doom if I, and only I, my Mother always stressed this,
let you live, all the pain that I put you through…

A l i e.

It always felt like a lie. Like we could never be; some reason or another, I always was the Moon
in a land where all the stars but one, the most important, were allowed.

Yet when you told me in so many words how much, how painfully you loved me… I…

Hereby I have nothing, I have no one.

No land, no family, no stars.

But you. And you, and you, and your light.

I finally… see you eye to eye.

My pain is so insignificant, it fits in the palm of your warm hand.

I love you. I promise I'll be better; I'll kiss your every scar with fervour; I'll treat you like a King
you never got to be; I'll pledge my life in your forever-wounded hands; I'll learn how to draw
masterpieces, I'll write tales and poems, I'll glorify your very name; I'll live if only just to hear
your heartbeat, if only just to bask in you and die, knowing that I've earned a place beneath your
knees, inside your soul, in the reflection of your eyes.

I want you 'till the end of days. Please, let me have your heart, and I will grow a garden full of
our dahlias in between your veins. Please, be, until I no longer can see your eyes, mine.

I love you.

In this vile world, you are the only truth I've grown to know.

P. S. I'll even learn… if that is your desire…

to let you go.

 A Wolf, A Curse, and A Goddess
Chapter Notes

A playlist: Spotify or VK.

There's also a piano composition by Helz.
For this particular chapter in some scenes I vibed really hard with Kensuke Ushio - Smells
Blood.
Some other suggestions:
Two Steps From Hell - False King,
Земфира - Злой человек,
Globus - Doomsday.

Trigger warnings: descriptions of physical injuries, death, and yada yada, if you've read this fic
this far, you are probably already used to my level of... intensity.

The final chapter will be out soon! I hope you'll stay with our boys to the end of this journey!

"I am sorry, Your Grace."

Gilda's breath stutters. Her whole body freezes, numb, into an ice statue, and somebody has cracked
her eyes, an arrow pierces through her glasses, shattering them, through her forehead, through her
skull. Mind-crushing pain reverberates along her veins, it defines her blood, it deafens the senses until
the world is a blur of screaming red, and all she does is deeply sigh, slowly sit down, take a
handkerchief from her pockets, and wipe her pristine, smooth glasses in soothing, circling motions.

When she wears them again, the world is still obscured by the thickest fog and cracks in funny
zigzags.

…She needs to see a doctor soon. It seems her vision is getting worse by the day.

"I beg your pardon. I am afraid I didn't quite catch that." Gilda says weakly, staring into one spot,
arms on her lap crawling to squeeze her shoulders with sudden, bruising force. She rocks in place and
doesn't even register it. "What did you say?"

She doesn't hear Don's response. Her horrid vision narrows to only his lips, and she regrets how she
ever learned how to read them.

She regrets she ever got to live at all.

Her Royal Highness, Emma, died.

The world is so blurry now she doesn't comprehend where Don begins and how he is already sitting
on his knees before her, holding the edges of her skirt, not daring to even meet her gaze behind the
wet surface of her glasses. He mumbles something deeply, some silly, nonsensical words a person
who just lost their love would never understand in their state. How it'll be alright, how he'll be with
her, how strong she is and she'll get through this, how it's alright to cry, how he really gets her pain, he
knows how she is suffering right now, and he…
A raised palm stops his heated speech.

"How did this happen?" She asks, blank of a voice, blank of a face, blank of a person. Everything in
her screams how ruined she truly is right now: fogged glasses, red eyes, stained cheeks, purplish
marks on her shoulders with deep dents of long nails, yet her posture is ideal, yet her eyes are
hauntingly void of life, of any feeling, a forest burnt to the ground, and nothing is left but ashes, a
world which sun has died.

Don lets go of her skirt, hands falling uselessly along his frigid body.

"I believe someone else will tell ya about this… better than I ever could. Her Highness Anna will
arrive at yer mansion any minute now. She is the only one who survived the slaughter."

It doesn't take long for Gilda to collect her bearings and seem so perfectly composed that Don
wouldn't have believed himself if he heard she broke into tiny pieces before him mere minutes ago.

He has seen the second Princess only in paintings along the walls of Gilda's mansion: the timidest of
royal siblings, her beauty was always depicted as serene and gently intelligent, long blond braided
hair, blue eyes, and refined features made her look like a pretty doll; Anna was always stationed in
Emma's shadow whose presence in every art was almost godlike, ideal, brilliant, almost unfair. It
always seemed like she could never even compare: what is a doll in contrast to the Goddess?

When Anna, the last one alive out of her family, steps into the room, Don sees a hardened, exhausted
warrior. Furrowed eyebrows, a heavy stare, a young woman in her own right, eyes that hide troubled
thoughts, looming regrets, and such traumatic memories it is a miracle how she is still standing. Her
unnatural prettiness transforms into something almost powerful, so determined, and burning with rage
and internal strength.

He cannot believe it took her sister's death for her to start shining.

Gilda embraces her and strokes her back in soothing, circling motions. The warrior hides away for
only a second to reveal the scarred, twisted, scared, lonely form of a little girl whose family was
slaughtered before her very eyes. Even the glistening of her tears is of such beauty that poets would
sing songs to them alone.

It is only a second, however.

Gilda holds her hands and promises that she will do whatever it takes for her. She says she knows
how hard it is to relive these moments, yet she needs to understand what happened.

Anna throws a quick look in Don's direction, then back to Gilda, all the while raising her eyebrow in a
silent question.

"You can speak in his presence. He is a trusted friend."

Don bows to her deeply at Gilda's words.

Anna inhales and trembles, gaze glued to one dot in reality. She starts.

"You are aware that we went to Sachevia for the anniversary of Ray's death. Emma didn't plan to
come, at first. We are still mourning Mother, so it didn't seem proper to taint Isabella's grief with our
own. However, Father persuaded her to come… He said grief is lessened when it is shared, and she
should bring us along."
"I should have come with you… I could have prevented it."

"No, Gilda, you couldn't have," Anna says weakly and closes her hands on Gilda's palms. "You would
have been killed along with us."

And then something changes in her speech. It is very subtle, but even Don notices it: how her eyes
lose focus, her eyebrows furrow, and her lips move to tell the story furtherm yet no voice comes out
for a while. As if she cannot believe what she saw. This is understandable, Don wagers. It took him a
while to come to terms with Mom's demise. And he didn't even witness her death firsthand.

"We gathered for a funeral repast." Even her speech slows down unnaturally as if she is reading the
words in terrible handwriting from a piece of paper. "Our guards were stationed outside, but for some
reason, they didn't come to save us… Nobody was in the room apart from us, royal siblings, and
Isabella when she stood up and said that five years ago her beloved, her only son died. And the one
who killed him was Emma."

She closes her eyes, and Gilda squeezes her hands in reassurance. "Out of nowhere, we were grabbed
from behind. Even Phill and Jemima… Jemima screamed and interrupted Isabella's speech… They
slit her throat first. No warning. Nothing."

Gilda lets a horrified gasp and immediately embraces Anna by the shoulders. She doesn't seem to
notice as if she is still there... Hearing her little sister's scream quiet down to silence.

"Isabella said that every sin comes with a price. Emma killed her son. And now she will kill everyone
who Emma cares for. One by one. Phill didn't scream. But he was next."

She clenches Gilda's shoulders in return, suddenly aware of her surroundings, aware that she, and she
alone, escaped hell.

"And then I… was supposed to be next. But Emma howled madly, kicked the one who held her, and
took his knife along her throat with bare hands. Instead of hurting him or Isabella, she hurt herself.
Her scream and pain distracted them from me… I never was the one to hurt anyone… But I kicked
Isabella's shocked guard as she did. Emma yelled for me to run, to abandon her, to jump out of the
window. I did. I fell on the ground just like you taught me, Gilda…"

Gilda lets Anna's shoulders go and looks into her eyes with poorly hidden hope.

"Then you can't be absolutely sure that Emma…?!"

"But I turned around at the last second. Emma didn't scream anymore, either."

It is silent for the longest while.

"I know it's hard to believe me… I have proof."

And then out of the pockets of her dress, she procures something wrapped in a handkerchief.

With trembling hands and greenish, grayish face she unwraps it.

Gilda gasps loudly and muffles a scream between her palms.

It is an ear.

A green, intricate, expensive earring is still hanging from the little hole in it.
The exact same earring Gilda is wearing right now.

That is not how she identified it, however.

"I wish we were pressed flowers on the same page." Emma used to giggle and close the lower half of
her face with a book while Gilda gently, so gently as if she might fall apart just from her touch, kissed
her on the mole on the curve of her ear.

"I wish you didn't have to die." Gilda mutters deliriously,

looking at the mole on the curve of the severed ear.

Emma's ear.

Her lips tremble before she stands abruptly and turns away from both Anna and Don, towards the
window.

Her voice is steel. Her voice is absolute.

It is full of thirst for vengeance.

"Then this is…"

"War?" Ray repeats, dazed, mouth open, a body demanding support against Norman's shoulder.

Death, Famine, Conquest, War… They trail his every step.

Emma… died? The whole royal family… By the hands of his Mother?

No?... This cannot be right. Emma he knows would never overlook such a glaring trap. She would
never let her siblings be massacred, she would never abandon him, she would never… She cannot die.
This is absurd. She is so powerful, she defeated Norman once, she is the strongest person he has ever
known.

And Mother…

"This doesn't make sense," Norman says, the first to break the silence after Don's story. "She knows
Ray is alive. She saw him at the Imperial castle."

"She saw me? Why didn't she talk to me?" Ray gapes at him, uneasily intruding into his space,
demanding answers.

Norman averts his eyes and gently pries Ray away from himself. A safe distance away.

"Who is to say now?"

"Why would she do this? Why? Why wait for the anniversary of my death? Why murder them all if
she knew that I live?" Maybe she needed an excuse?... But why? Why why why? Mother… Why
would she… "Norman. I'm sorry. I have to talk to her. I need to, I have to understand why…"

Why Emma and the little ones had to die while he still lives.
Ray doesn't know what he expects, but the pure gentleness in Norman's eyes almost unnerves him.
How radically the world he almost had, the one he cannot obtain now laughs at his face: you still can
run away.

"You know I'd do anything for you." Norman whispers, and Ray exhales in relief: he doesn't know
how he could have lived with himself if they escaped…

"Good luck with that, Yer Kinglinesses," Don interjects, and Norman visibly rolls his eyes, huffing
with his nose, irritated by the casual address. "Gilda's army is a few days' march from Sachevia. When
she is at the capital, Isabella is gone. Slaughtered. Ya simply won't make it."

Panicked thoughts overtake Ray: they won't make it, what do they do, they won't make it–

"We will." Norman takes Don's palm between his hands, shaking it firmly, and Don blankly stares at
their clenched hands. "Thank you for everything you've done for my…" Norman hums, taking a
second to ponder what would be most appropriate to say, and a smirk, foul, slithery, distorts his
features, and his grip tightens just a tad, almost imperceptibly. Almost. "For my Ray. We will not
delay you any longer. I'm sure in these times your family needs you."

"...They really do need me. My Father was drafted, and the little ones… Yeah. Ya're right."

Ray notices all at once how exhausted Don is: how his impressive height is not as spectacular now, as
he is hunched so much the weight of the world is this close to breaking his spine, how his buoyancy,
bubbliness, and humour are deflated, how he is almost a shadow of his former self, how he hugs Ray
as if he doesn't hope that they will meet again…

As if he doesn't hope for anything in life any longer.

He leaves all too fast, having brought nothing but despair and infecting them with that same
knowledge that

Emma died Emma died Emma died Emma died Emma died Emma died Emma

Norman watches Ray crumble by the second, acceptance finally settling in; his gaze steels with
hardened resolve, and he guides Ray deeper into the cover of the woods.

This seems to snap Ray out of his disruptive thoughts, and he says quietly, "What do you have in
mind?"

Norman huffs loudly, writhes, and slowly utters, eyes running, never meeting with Ray's gaze.

"I am… going to change. I see no other alternative. I know no fatigue when I am in this… another
form. Tell me if at any point this becomes too much for you."

Flooding memories of the wolf almost nauseate Ray. This is serious… This is even more than trusting
him with Ray's body or even his love.

This is Norman ripping apart his own chest and trusting Ray with his still beating, vicious heart. The
heart that will forever stay sooty black, a grim reminder of his sins.

He gives Ray that and the power to turn away. They both don't know what will hurt more.

Will you keep it alive for me? Will you run away? Will you strike it?
Will you accept it?

"...Alright."

"Turn around then." Norman says, a bit cracked, a bit commanding, and just a tiny bit defensive of
tone. As if this transformation is something even more intimate than staring and memorizing bare
skin.

Ray obeys the command.

And hears how behind him clothes rustle and fall, how teeth start chattering in response to naked skin
being exposed to snow and utter cold.

And then it is quiet. It is always quiet with him. Eerily. Skin crawling.

…A cold nose touching his hand.

Ray jumps in stupendous fright and turns around.

He witnesses the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.

He knows, he remembers this wolf. He remembers blood on the teeth, white fur caked with dirt, his
eyes filled with loathing and a desire, a drive to kill; Ray remembers him all: his paws with ripping
flesh claws on his own shoulders, the smell of Father's blood and death from his jaw…

And he cannot stop gazing, transfixed, lost, the world crumbling and bowing on its knees before his
beauty.

His ears are down as if he is apologizing, his fur seems so silky Ray wants to bury his hands, his
whole being into it, and stroke him, and hear him whimper, of such white colour he is almost a rabbit
hiding away in the snow from predators, with such a soft, miserable look as if he has got shot and he
himself feels so guilty over it.

He is so beautiful that terror blends with reverence.

He is so big his uneven breaths reach Ray's figure; he raises one front leg as if to run away, he titles
his head as if asking millions of questions at once,

Why are you staring so intently?

Are you afraid of me?

Do you abhor me?

It is not too late to think it over.

Just say a word… Don't look at me like I'm…

The wolf steps one leg in front of the other, creating pawprints on the snow, and sighs, a gesture of
such human nature, Ray cannot help but say,

"Norman?..."

Norman stops fidgeting in place and clicks his jaws, a threatening yet such transparent gesture for no,
I ate him.
And Ray laughs, ruining the tension, grips the sides of his abdomen, and falls on the snow, and the
wolf nearly grumbles and comes near.

Near enough for Ray to stop his outburst in a split second and hug, no, seize Norman's fluffy neck.

"You know. I really like your hair. So thick, and curly, and so soft… Turns out, your fur reflects that."
Ray says, scratching behind the wolf's ears, stroking his nape, combing his sides, and he cannot help
himself, and he smooches Norman on the wet, cold nose. "What a good boy."

Wolf stares at him like he is out of his mind, like he is delusional, like he is hopelessly insane, for
need he truly remind him that this wolf killed his family?

Yet wolves do not speak, and stares mean nothing to Ray as he kisses Norman on the forehead like he
is in heaven, and instead of a displeased growl what comes out of Norman's throat is a pathetic
whimper. Ray giggles and tries to push the wolf to the side and scratch his torso as if he were a dog,
yet Norman doesn't budge, such a big and strong wolf, Ray thinks and laughs, and Norman stares.
Silently. Judgementally.

Ray cannot tell how Norman feels when he strokes his back, puts his leg over the wolf's torso, lies on
him, chest to a trembling spine, presses his thighs to the wolf's sides, and grabs a fistful of his fur to
hold onto. For a while, they are both frozen; Ray thinks how strong Norman as a wolf must be to be
able to support his weight and run with him…

"Sorry… I must be heavy."

The wolf turns his neck towards him, and something almost hungry flashes in his gaze, gone in a
second, and he, a very human gesture, shakes his head, and, not giving Ray a chance to catch his
breath, bolts forward.

If Ray had to describe the ride, it would be 'like riding a pony with broken legs, like being beaten in
the face by a blizzard, like holding onto slipping life in the carriage that shakes in all directions, like
he is one with winter and white snow, likehe is the wolf.'

At one point, absolutely mad, Ray raises his head to the wind, unclenches his tight fists on Norman's
fur, and laughs, delirious from freedom, and outspreads his arms like wings; a familiar caw that
sounds like a copying laugh resonates above them, and Raven flies along, and dives at them, and
plays with them, then speeds away, he pirouettes in the air, pecks Norman's tail, and caws, and both he
and Ray laugh,

for at long last they are free.

The minutes of this life of wind and snow turn to hours, turn to nights and days, and Ray falls asleep
on Norman's back, he awakens and whispers into the wolf's pointy ear that they should rest, that he
must be so tired to run for so very long. Norman just barely shakes his head, and Ray shakes along
with him from the cold creeping inside his bones.

He sneezes, shudders on Norman's spine, so much so it seems like the earth itself wobbles, so much
so it seems Norman has stopped and is looking at him, raising one front paw at a time.

When the fire is ready and Ray warms his trembling hands, a wet nose bumps into his palms, and a
quiet whine attracts his attention to a huge wolf lying beside him, almost blending with the snow.

"You can turn into a human again. We could… warm each other up."
A huff that Ray interprets as a laugh sounds from the wolf; he stares into Ray's eyes, blinks slowly,
pupils widening, and cocks his head slightly.

Ray understands and muffles a delighted squeal.

He lays his head on Norman's side, buries his face into his fur, kisses him chaotically on the head, and
embraces him, one hand between loose ground and his warm belly, the other in his soft, so soft, you
cannot even imagine, white fur, and Norman whines and grumbles, and hides his nose between two
paws as if to warm it up.

Ray understands, he giggles, scratching behind Norman's ears, "You are so compliant. So soft. So
warm. So accepting of my touch. I wonder why you've built these walls around yourself so I wouldn't
see that… How utterly, how ridiculously you actually want this. This warmth. These embraces.
This…"

And Norman wants to retort; he opens his jaws, but not even a growl comes out. So he lies there, a
head on two paws, and accepts this. This warmth. These embraces.

This love.

They shared a bed while holding hands; they shared it skin to skin; they've shared their years and all
the while they've breathed, inhaled, they've belonged to one another.

Yet this night, and this night only.

Norman allows Ray to touch him;

his wildly beating, fragile heart.

It takes a month of a leisure stroll on horseback from the North to Sachevia.

It takes a week of a hurried ride on a wolf that knows no fatigue.

It takes a reflection of the wolf's mirror-like, blue eyes for Ray to see

that his hometown is burning.

It is only a second, it is only a vision, an illusion, a confusion… Ray is sure and doesn't turn his head
to the horizon.

He watches, hands clenching the fur on Norman's neck in a painful grip, the capital turning to red dust
and gore in the wide pupils of the wolf.

He watches until the sky thunders a low song, until his hands and Norman's fur redden to blood and
horror.

Ray unclenches his hands, shaking, sure that he has hurt his love, yet Norman is no longer white at
all, and he is staring up above.

The branches of the forest do not save them from the hysteria of the sky, from its roaring scream,
from its thick veil of clouds, the colour of the muddy, slimy waters, from its tears…
Ray touches his wet face and examines his

reddened hand.

His crimson wolf. The fur of whose turns to bloodied icicles and fangs.

"It can't be… The bloody curses…"

Norman seems unfazed as he smells his paw and retracts it immediately, disgusted, and lies, and rolls
on the remains of the snow, yet all he does is make his fur shaggy, and Ray can feel that too:

how the blood from the sky sips into his skin, how it is absorbed by his veins, how it makes its way
into his heart, slowing, slowing, slowing it down…

And then something lightly bumps him on the side and pushes, quite insistently, with a forehead, with
a nose to the ground, with all the strength, and Ray can do just that. Turn around, as Norman wishes.
So Ray wouldn't see the abomination of him.

Ray thinks that as an animal Norman is much easier to understand. When he wants affection, when he
is exhausted, when he is embarrassed or doesn't want to stay wet, all covered in blood sticking to his
fur, he is so, so easy to comprehend.

When a human Norman, naked feet on the snow, circles on the white skin, under the eyes darker than
nights in the North (the only physical indication of how sleep deprived he truly is), bare chest, bare
neck, bare everything (Ray notices at only the corner of his eye), when he pulls Ray by the shoulder,
inhuman gesture, painful, and presses him to a tree, and kisses him, raw, famished, as if another
second, and he will lose his mind without it, and buries his human fingers in Ray's sticky locks, and
pulls, so hard Ray's neck nearly snaps, and they stay there, under the bloody rain, and kiss as if this is
their last chance, their last dance; Ray doesn't understand. And doesn't care.

"What was that for?" He manages to utter barely when Norman scrapes his teeth over Ray's neck.

"You've been riding me for a whole week. Just so you know," he dares to go higher and whisper in
Ray's ear, "next time, I'll ride you and pull your long hair like I mean it, and we'll see who howls
next."

And then he lets Ray go.

Norman, with his unnatural reflexes and power, doesn't comprehend how this happened. How Ray
now towers over him, a solid few centimeters taller (and why this has to be so needlessly arousing),
two hands now trapping him in a cage of hard muscles and a bark of a tree that painfully bites his bare
back, black orbs suck him in, black eyebrows raise, a corner of deviously full lips lifts smugly as if to
ask,

Oh, really?

He smells a mix of blood, dirt, stagnant sweat, the most filthy Norman has ever smelt of him, and yet
his whole body responds and presses back against him, and shivers run and break his spine in utter
shame when Ray whispers,

"You’d have to fight me to make me let you go."

"O-oh, I'd fight, no doubt." He tries to sound non-affected by this display of sudden dominance, voice
all low, seductive, insinuations ringing in the air, yet by the way Ray smiles of course he has noticed
this small, insignificant, truly, stutter. "But I'm disarmed, armourless," Norman throws a telling look
down his naked chest and abdomen that are pressed between a tree and him, "and we haven't time for
this."

How convenient of an excuse is that, really, if the world is tearing inside out and they have a war to
stop?

Norman dresses quickly, and they sprint towards the capital. Fortunately or not, the town is not at all
in flames like Ray feared so much.

He was terrified of screams, of his people running away from death by the fire, by the Imperial
soldiers' blades, of seeing so much blood it might have twisted up his mind, his body inside out.

He isn't sure the reality is any better.

Red.

Quiet.

So quiet.

As if gods themselves have abandoned this town. As if everyone at once has fallen asleep to never
rise again. As if this is his personal punishment, to be able to come back home after so many years to
find a deserted country without any people. A crown on his head shattered long ago, and now when
he found it buried in the dust, there was no country. There was no home.

He knows every nook and cranny of these streets, and even the reddened ambient of it does not deter
him. Only the streets do not welcome the lost Prince back. They do not recognize him.

They are lifeless.

Silent.

Ray is sure he is losing his mind when they approach the tavern the young Prince used to visit.
Always so busy, so loud, so comforting, now dead. A lonely sound of a creaking window bellows in
the streets. Ray jumps and holds his palms against his ears not to hear anything at all.

"Hey. Ray. What's wrong?" Norman whispers, gently prying away his hands and holding them in his,
grounding him, looking him in the panicked eye, and Ray gulps, exhales slowly, and the wind catches
it to spread it across the dead town. The only sound. The only thing alive.

Did everyone get slaughtered? But they have not seen a single body… It is unnerving. It is so…

"It's never been so quiet. Where is everyone? Where are the orphans? Where are Thoma and Lannion?
I wonder if they are alright…"

"You've nothing to worry about. My prediction is that the town was evacuated…"

Norman pauses as something is flying in the air towards them, and Ray jumps high to catch it, landing
in the puddle of blood that instantly dirties his boots and soaks the lower half of his pants. Some
droplets fall on Norman's clothes, and he, disgusted beyond words, still comes closer to Ray that
carefully straightens a piece of paper.

A warning.
"To all the citizens of the renowned country of Sachevia,

It pains me to inform you of the terrible crime your Queen committed against the people and the royal
family of the Verhs Empire. In cold blood, in the secrecy of the night, within the walls of your royal
castle, Her Majesty Isabella massacred Her Royal Highness, her little sister, and her brother. Only
Princess Anna survived to tell us the tragic story of her siblings' horrible demise.

We deem this an act of betrayal and war. In a week's time, our army will march to your capital to
serve justice to our people. We do not require further bloodshed, however; we only need Isabella's
head. If you stay in the capital while we arrive, you will be considered a protector of the murderer of
the Imperial family and will be punished accordingly. The punishment for the concealment of Isabella
will be immediate death.

We give you a week to flee. We wager this is plenty to say goodbyes to your homes and peaceful
lives. Hopefully, you will be able to return to it soon enough.

The General of the Imperial army"

Is that why the whole town is deserted? Everyone believed them? Everyone just… ran away and
abandoned their Queen at the mercy of the Imperial army?

Did everyone hate her so much?

"When did Gilda become the General of the Imperial army?" Norman reads the name on the corner of
the leaflet, snorts, and rolls his eyes, snapping Ray out of his gloomy thoughts. "This shy sweet girl?
Is that her? Now, this is hysterical."

"Leave it. Gilda is a genius when it comes to war tactics and espionage. It's only natural she'd lead the
army in a crisis. You worship a Goddess, by the way, and we barely escaped your Mother when
fleeing."

"As I was saying," Norman interrupts, and Ray wants to laugh at how transparent, how frustrated his
face is as he is still trying to come to terms with the concept of powerful women. "The orphans are
most likely alright. And you don't have to care about them at all. They stoned you when you were
little for what wasn't your fault."

"Well, you killed my Father when you were little, and I still want to kiss you senseless every moment
of my life."

"Is that funny to you, Ray?" Norman gapes at him, and Ray giggles at the expression on his face, so
insulted that it borders on comical. Yet all at once his face smooths in alert, and he points to the
closest house with his head. Ray doesn't let a sound escape from his lips anymore, and they hide
quickly.

It could be a patrol, yet by the furrowed eyebrows of Norman and the leisurely sound of hooves
thumping against the damp ground, Ray guesses it is only one person. One person casually strolling
through the deserted town, not even a care in the world… Ray cannot help but feel curious. He peeks
his head carefully…

And his mouth drops to the ground.

White hair dirtied significantly by the red of the rain, a regal posture, an empty, bored stare, a long
cape behind him so similar to that of wings, a flair of someone who owns this place, who owns this
very world.

As he turns a corner, out of sight, Ray cannot contain his shock as he whispers loudly,

"Peter Ratri? Seriously? What is the lap dog of your Mother doing here? Is she involved somehow
with the war? Oh my god, of course, how didn't I think of that, it's all connected–"

"Quiet." Norman whispers, and his eyes dart towards the direction Peter headed to, unnaturally fast,
attention piqued.

"What? I'm telling the tru–"

Norman is on him at once, clamping a palm over Ray's lips, pressing him to a wall. Ray huffs with his
nose angrily and considers for a second biting his hand so that he would feel it for a long time, yet
seeing how Norman puts a finger to his lips, such disconcert contorting his every feature, Ray doesn't
have a choice but to strain his ears.

And then Ray hears him, too.

It is a blessing Norman keeps Ray's mouth shut. For otherwise he wouldn't have suppressed a scream.
The phantom pain shoots him in the ear, and Ray grips Norman's hand and wants so much to run
away.

His nightmare, Leuvis, is but ten feet away from him.

"...The situation in the North is stabilized, I hear. Dear sister is now declared the Holy Queen in an
untimely absence of both Kings. I hope she's not too overwhelmed with power so that she would miss
the grand finale."

"She is on her way, Your Majesty. We need to wait just a little longer."

"That is all well and good, but Isabella is being questioned right now. If Legravalima doesn't hurry,
the new General will kill the Queen, and the portal will open without her. And all our plans will be for
naught."

"I feel her coming… Hold the General from her revenge for just a few hours. A question, Your
Majesty?"

"Ask away."

"Will the portal open with Isabella's death? Is that all it takes?"

"Not necessarily. But we don't have any more blue bloods at our disposal, so she is all we have left.
The Northern pups ran away, Anna granted us the power to start the war and the curses, and Emma,
this sadistically intelligent child of mine, has…"

A noise from the depths of the abandoned town interrupts him. Whines of horses, a gust of freezing
wind, and Norman's eyes blow wide, mouth hanging open, a palm on Ray's lips trembling, as he
mouths a disbelieving, frightened,

Mother?

"This is your lucky day, Peter. It seems we do not need even a few hours for your beloved to appear. I
wonder when she is Goddess, will she return your affections?" A mocking laughter bells throughout
the empty streets, and what Ray wouldn't have given right now to see Peter's face. "Come now, greet
her. This is finally getting interesting."

Norman lets go of Ray's mouth when everyone disperses and all is finally quiet, and Norman bites the
end of his nail in distress,

"I don't understand what's going on. This is abnormal. What portal? Goddess? Is my Mother actually
involved? How did she get here so fast?"

"I'm sure she has her ways since she's a demon and all."

"Who–"

"It doesn't matter. We have to hurry, Norman. The demons want to kill my Mother." Ray says,
suppressing a whole blizzard of panic, and forcibly tugs at Norman's sleeve. "Do you remember the
secret passage? We'll get inside the castle faster than they would."

Norman nods, eyebrows furrowed, and they do not look back.

They run so fast the blood from the sky sticks to their eyelashes and pours into their eyes, so fast the
houses blend into a gory mess of beating flesh, so fast the pain in Ray's chest becomes almost
unbearable, and he opens his mouth to breathe, and the blood trails his lips and fills his mouth, and
the only thing he thinks about is the disgusting metal taste on his tongue.

When they reach the charred hut, Ray notices how the houses near it have become just like it,
abandoned, bent, hideous, as if the hut has blighted them with its existence. Ray wonders if the world
will turn into this image if Legravalima is to be its sole ruler…

They help each other as they descend into the secret passage, and then they run again, their laboured
breathing echoing against the walls, and Ray nearly trips, and Norman starts coughing, and for a
while, Ray thinks it is because of the excessive amount of dust until it hits him…

"I'm sorry. Can we hold on for a moment? I… don't feel so good. And I have a very bad feeling about
this." Norman barely says, coughing, and Ray stops immediately, acutely aware of how little time they
have left, but when this disease overtakes Norman, what can he do but pretend that the world isn't
tearing itself apart for just a second?

Surely… The world can wait just a little longer.

Still, Ray throws Norman's arm around his shoulders, supporting Norman's weight, walking much
slower, and Ray expects to hear a lot of things from Norman like "I'm not that frail", "Am I your
Princess now?", or…

"I could have said 'Go on without me, leave me', but I won't anymore. Instead, promise me that no
matter what happens you'll stay with me. You'll stay with me, you hear me?" Norman almost pleads,
weakly, voice scratching, and Ray only has to laugh for how silly is that? What could possibly
happen? What has gotten into him all of a sudden? He strokes Norman's palm with a thumb in
reassurance, with an adoring smile, and Norman clenches his palm in a vice, and hisses, a tad too high
to be a threat. "You told me you'd fight me to make you let me go. I'd fight for that, too. Will you?"

Ray's laughter quiets down in the dead silence of the secret passage. His eyes soften, and he cups
Norman's face for the tips of their noses to touch as he playfully, slowly shakes his face so their noses
would brush together. A sigh of tenderness falls right into the depth of Norman's mouth, and he has to
grip Ray's forearm to stay standing.

"I wouldn't go where you wouldn't follow."

And they both know Norman would follow him to death.

Perhaps… even farther.

Ray tries very hard not to think of the kiss they just shared: lingering, limbs trembling from the force
of their grasp on each other, eyes open, memorizing, and Goddess only knows whose tears tainting
their lips with bitter salt, and they swallow it all, grief and hope; they do not talk about their chests
and stomachs churning in dread for this feels so much like…

their very last.

At the entrance to the familiar tomb, Norman sighs raggedly and claims that he can go on his own
now. The tomb is as empty as one could expect; Ray throws a single glance towards the winged statue
of his Grandmother.

Please, help us, he thinks. You've done so much for many over the years, and I'm only now just asking
you to...

Norman's fingers interlace with Ray's as if she is communicating through him that

they will be alright.

They stay in Ray's old chambers not a moment too long; they stay long enough for Ray to quickly run
his fingers between the covers of his old books he expects to find covered in thick dust.

They are pristinely clean.

As if someone has expected him to come home.

All this time.

…He truly does not have time for thoughts like these.

They exit, and it is strange how completely, eerily quiet it is in the castle. As if everyone, every single
cook, maid, and butler abandoned the Queen after they came to know what she had done… And not a
single Imperial guard is in sight.

"That means they are gathered in one place…" Norman hums, and Ray understands him immediately.
That Gilda is so certain that no one will come and save the Queen. That no one will forgive her.

Besides, how befitting, how humiliating of an end is it for a Queen to be killed in her own throne
room?

Only two guards are stationed before the doors of the throne room; it takes only two seconds, two
flicks of Norman's wrist, Norman's squinted eyes, and shrunken pupils for them to fall without a
sound.

The pair comes quickly to rest their shoulders on the door, and their gazes turn hazy as they lean their
ears (even if Norman doesn't truly need to do this) to listen carefully...
"If you answer me now, your end will be swift. I promise you an honourable death if you comply with
my questioning and do not test my patience."

"I've told you time and time again. I haven't killed a single soul–"

"Quit with your filthy lies. We have a witness and… proof."

"Proof? What proof? For all you know, Her Highness is still merrily enjoying herself, alive, without
you in her life. Maybe the girl has gone insane after her Mother's death and persuaded her whole
family to run away from your sick Empire. Maybe Anna was left to stay to keep you off their track.
Maybe she doesn't need you anymore–"

"How dare you!"

A pained yelp, a rumble of metal plates, a sound of slapped skin, heavy, hissing breathing.

"In accordance with the Imperial law, for massacring the Imperial family and the heir to the throne, I
hereby sentence you to immediate death. Isabella."

A strong arm twists Ray's wrist, keeping him in place, yet Ray growls and darts forward, slams into
the closed doors with such force he is certain his wrist bone has dislocated, and he doesn't care, he
doesn't CARE–

"GILDA, NO!"

This is wrong, this is so wrong, this is not how this ends, this is not the last time he sees his Mother,
they haven't even talked, they haven't forgiven each other, this is madness, this is lynching, they need
more proof, what is Gilda even thinking?!

Gilda stops the descent of her sword towards Isabella's heaving chest for just a second; she looks at
Ray with so much fury, so much sorrow that he nearly trips over his feet, that he doesn't recognize her
in full armor, and in her form, he sees the Goddess of Revenge, a fire that will kill them all from pain,
oh, so much pain–

She swings the sword to pierce the murderer's heart in one calculated strike.

He is running so the drums of blood are chorusing in his ears, his feet are burning, he is a hawk, a
cheetah, he is the light, and he won't make it, he won't make it, he won't–

He will.

"MOTHER, N–"

O.

RAY.
An inhuman howl.

Blood, blood, blood, so much blood, it's in his mouth, it's in between his palms, it smells, it tastes, it
shrieks of blood, it buries, it's outside, it's flooding the floor, the sense, the blue, it's

His.

Ray chokes on his own blood and stares at a hole in his wide-open chest.

There is no pain at first.

Purely a sound.

His name that rings, and screams, and tears his mind, hollow, full, of a banshee, of a siren, too far
away, inside his skull, an operetta with a plot in its long, fake, falling, rising out of sync "a", and Ray
cannot get enough of it, he wants to hear it 'till the end, yet "a" is never-ending, it consumes him, until
it is the only meaning in his life, until it is the only sound he makes, until he feels

Such P A I N

That the world is tearing at its seams mimicking his gashing open wound and he is falling right into
the laceration of the world and a hand warmer than death touches his evaporating fingertips and all he
sees is Norman's wide-open mouth that still screams

and

Norman's eyes.

His last thought before the end of time is that

Of course, his death is blue.

He has died many times in his short life.

From the grief of a loss, drowning, poison, suffocation, and betrayal. Death at this point is frightening,
hideous, rotting but ultimately still his friend. He knows the sounds of her footsteps, her favourite
flowers, her habits, and her love for silence. He knows she gave birth to his one and only love, and
only gratitude rests in his heart, frostbitten, clenched in bony hands, and so, so tired.

He has died so many times he doesn't fear her anymore.

That is why he feels it.

There is no Death in this place.

…Only the eyes of his own Mother.

The only thing existing in this warped, stagnant, stale place where he is bodiless, where he is chained,
where he is almost dreaming, are her eyes. The shade of purple he didn't inherit (nonetheless, Norman
used to tell him that whenever Ray was angry they would flash terrifying violet), the shade of
motherly gentleness he has forgotten, the shade of such strong curiosity and wonder as if he is the
most important treasure this universe has ever grown to know.

He gulps, and a suppressed, choked burst of tears deep from within his chest nearly shatters him.

There is no Death. Just the thing he has wanted all his life.

Love of his Mom.

That is why he knows he is not alive, either.

"Can I…" He stops, startled by how dull, how low, how small his voice is, how it almost doesn't
resonate. As if in this place he is so deeply, so utterly alone, as if in the world there never was, never
is, never will be absolutely anyone but him. He doesn't understand why he is saying this, why he is
crying so much, all of a sudden: from guilt or from such cold despair of being left so cruelly alone.
"Can I wait for him? I promised that I wouldn't go where he wou-... wouldn't follow. He will not
stay… without me." And then he is breathing too fast, and he is clenching his chest, and he cannot
stop wheezing. "I left him, what have I done, why would I ever do this to him, I killed him, why did I
ever say that, what have I done, I made him watch me die–"

"What do you mean? You are not dead." A sharp, high pitch with rolling "r"s, awkward, almost
clumsy, like a kid who is too lazy to learn a foreign language, thunders throughout Ray's body.

And then the eyes gradually form a body of a woman around themselves. Ray cocks his head and
blinks his eyes, thinking his vision is blurry and he is seeing black spots, but the woman seems to
truly shift in and out of shadows. One of her legs disappears, then her fingers, then she is gone to
reappear somewhere to the left of him as if she cannot for the life of her sit still for just a second.
Even her hair floats around her like she is underwater, and then it changes colours, slowly, sometimes
so black it merges with the space, sometimes with the yellow sparkles that dance on her long hair like
the stars and reflect themselves on the walls of their cage, sometimes so red she births a phoenix of
dawn and then so green he swears he hears a chirp of birds that seem to hide in her locks, and then she
is so white, like northern snow and blizzards, and Norman's hair, and then she is giggling, a sound of
mischief and immense inner pride, and then she disappears, and all that is left are her mockingly
purple eyes.

Ray would never have thought the Mother of all would be… like this.

"That's a relief." He sighs and watches as she reappears again, smiling wide, her body rotating in the
air as if she is swimming, her eyes circling… His head is spinning from her antics. "I quite tire of
dying."

"Oh, I know." Ray blinks, and she is already lying on the floor, limbs sprawled, making a snow angel
without any snow. "This happens every single chapter."

"What?"
"What." She says, deadpan, leaning on her elbows, exposing her bare cleavage, and Ray already
wants to avert his eyes if not for the scar adorning her flat chest… The form of which exactly
replicates his own.

This instant it dawns on him how he entered her domain.

"The portal was supposed to open when a blue blood dies. But I didn't die there, not yet… Did you let
me in before the moment of my death?" Did she hurt herself for him to be her guest? "Why did you
save me?"

And then she is so still, so serious, her tone now is of a grown woman, completely accentless, and
Ray is mesmerized by Her, and he wants nothing else at all than to listen to Her, his one and only
Goddess…

"I've created this world; I know its every twist and turn. I've grown tired of it, ridiculously bored. That
is why I experimented on the best of my children and turned them into bloodlust demons because I
knew they would all betray the idea of humanity for riches, power, and eternal life. The outcome
bored me to no end. Yet you…" Her breath hitches, and she is now looming over him, at least two
heads taller, so close that it is honestly transgressive. "For the first time in centuries, you fascinated
me. Your thoughts, your guilt, your willpower, your mad love, your ability to forgive, I watched you
grow and couldn't look away. I couldn't understand your kindness; I couldn't for the love of me predict
that you would love a monster in the human flesh who massacred and ruined your entire life; that you
would abandon everything you've worked and lived for for your Mother who never loved you back
and could only wallow in self-pity. I threw rocks at you, I wished to see you break, I wanted you to
weep and be for once predictable. I've never been so deeply enamoured with what I've created. I
couldn't let you die. You are my masterpiece."

Ray watches her eyes swirl with that same mad love she told him of, warping, obsessive, almost
flattering, and few things have scared him quite as much in all of his life. And he has been scared of
many… many things.

"You are not very smart, are you? You are just a child playing with her toys." He says, suppressing a
strong shiver, with an intent to make her move away from him.

It works, and she is laughing, throwing back her head, arms outspread, and twirls in place, in an
endless circle, and Ray is getting dizzy, and he is mumbling, and he is screaming, an ugly
accompaniment to her merriment.

"This is madness. You made my life a living hell just because you were bored? Legravalima is your
Priestess. Did you tell her to do this to me?! Did you turn Norman into a beast just to see how I would
react to him withering on my very hands?! Did you make him do all this wretched horror because you
wanted to test me? JUST BECAUSE YOU WERE BORED–"

"You are such a good boy, my light." She coos at him, her voice is different once again, and he is so
horrified that he recognizes it as Isabella's that he doesn't react to her floating form embracing his
shoulders, planting a kiss to his forehead; she leaves a feeling of emptiness, such desolation wherever
she touches him that Ray stands there, petrified as if his very soul is being sucked away from him.
"You've exceeded my expectations, you've bested all my nightmares. Your love for Norman
conquered his twisted mind. Ask for anything. I could grant you whatever you could possibly desire. I
could never gift godhood to Legravalima, I know her all too well. She is like my lost twin sister who
wishes to see the world lessened of the burden of free thought; I know she would end up like me, lost,
utterly, despicably alone, so bored in a world where everyone is blissfully happy at the cost of one
little thing. You, however… I know you would be a great God. Your people would love you so much,
you could create a perfect world–"

"I do not need this." He hisses, pushes her away physically, and shuts his eyes not to see how she
would react or entertain herself. "I do not need the world. I wouldn't wish to be a God that made the
world for all the sufferings of it would have broken my heart."

He peeks at her and nearly yelps as she is smiling at him, lopsided, upside down, like a bat.

"Very intelligent! What book did you get that from?"

He interrupts, "I do not need the benevolent Goddess whose only purpose is to ruin lives out of
childish boredom. I so mighty wish I was right and you didn't exist."

"Is that your wish?" She floats towards him, now one height with him, his equal, staring at him,
unblinking, challenging: do you dare?

He is hesitant; how would people whose only guiding line and support in life is their faith in Her be
able to go on? What would there be to live for if no one is there to love you unconditionally?

"Yes."

And she is pouting like the little kid that she is, hands in a cross, and she is shrinking so that she is
bumping her forehead against his abdomen.

"Can't you forgive me-e-e?"

Ray sighs, mentally exhausted, and lowers to her level to pat her multicoloured hair. It calms her
crocodile tears instantly as she stills at his gentle touch. He almost doesn't wish to hurt her any further,
but he has to be honest.

"I am not kind, no matter what you may think of me. I am not a saint, a martyr; I am egotistical, and
my only wish has always been to be loved by people I hold close to heart."

She nuzzles into his touch, almost trembling; it makes him think of how utterly alone he has felt in
this place. Her domain where she dwells all by herself, abandoned by everyone and every single
thing.

A Goddess with nothing but her endless boredom and despair, finding a purpose for her eternal life in
his love.

A sympathetic sigh escapes his lips. "But… I will think about it."

"You truly are so kind, my child. No matter what you may think of yourself." She doesn't giggle or
whine anymore; there is no more head to pat under Ray's palm, and he straightens, outstretching his
hand towards her.

"Gods cannot die, my light." She smiles, a tired little crooked smile. She accepts his hand. It is warm.
"Yet I promise to you to rid the world of my presence. I will dispel all magical gifts and tributes. I will
not interfere nor will I help. I will wilt from boredom watching you live your miserable, plain lives.
However, I will forever treasure your wish; I've grown so very fond of you. No one will ever compare
to you and the story of your love."
And he is growing faint with each of her new word, and she is growing dimmer, the stars on her black
hair shining less brightly until there is only black sky in winter, her purple, loving eyes...

"I wish you eternal happiness.

Until we meet again… in another life."

And Norman's kisses on his lips.

 Epilogue
Chapter Notes

Hey :')

Trick or treat?
Obviously, a treat.

Here comes the final chapter... after almost a year of hiatus... do forgive me for this. This was the
roughest year of my whole life writing-wise.

Remember that I have playlists on Spotify and VK?

For this chapter strongly I recommend Nils Betch – O Helga Natt for the first part and
Rockettothesky – Grizzly Man for the second (yes, I rewatched Scam and had a blast, do not
shame me!)
Don't forget about a piano composition by Helz! It's only fitting to listen to it for the last time.

Trigger warnings: descriptions of wounds, mental traumas (trauma dumping on poor Ray),
mentions of physical abuse.

But mostly, really... just enjoy the absurd amount of fluff and happiness at long last.

As they say,
We deserve a soft epilogue, my love.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

O Lady Our Goddess, who didst grant unto us all those things necessary for salvation and didst bid us
to love one another and forgive each other our failings, bless and consecrate, kind Lady and lover of
good, these thy servants who love each other with a love of the spirit and have come into this thy holy
church to be blessed and consecrated. Grant unto them unashamed fidelity and sincere love and unto
their lands peace and prosperity, as Thou didst vouchsafe unto thy holy disciples and apostles thy
peace and love, bestow also on these servants, affording to them all those things needed for salvation
and life eternal. For Thou art the light and the truth and thine is the glory.

Ray cuts Norman's palm with frightening precision: painful enough for him to wince, not deep
enough to mar the holy floor with his blood.
Norman cuts Ray's palm with trembling hands and shaking pupils: too quick, a flash of pain painting
the world with vivid colours, with the blue eternity, a beacon of his eyes guiding him from a shiver
that freezes his whole arm numb.
Enough for both of them to leave each other scars.

Ray tries to breathe evenly and reaches for Norman's bleeding palm with his own; amongst the
accompaniment of the choir, resonating against the walls of this tiny church, their skins touch, their
blood mingles and becomes one. Ray barely exhales, suppressing pain, the way their wounds press
against one another in a disturbingly fit line, and it hurts, and he has to endure it.

Norman's lips tremble, reflecting Ray's feelings, and yet he is the one who mouths, I'm sorry.
In the dim light of the candles the blue of his eyes, the pain in them molds into something fragile,
something so shy, so revering when Ray just barely strokes his hand with a thumb. An inappropriate
gesture, such a glaring truth of who they really are to each other, yet Ray would have done so much
more to calm his brother in Goddess.

He agreed to this, after all.

"Do you remember back in the day you told me you wanted to marry me?" Norman once asked him.

He was a child back then; naive, oblivious of the fact this is not possible for Princes of two nations,
not knowing how complicated that would be for everyone but them. He dreamed of this as a little boy
who read too many cheesy romance tales that always ended with a wedding: he giggled when he
imagined people calling them this grown-up word spouses, he imagined carrying Norman bride style
and spending all their days in each other's arms.

Ray is not that boy anymore. He is aware their countries will never allow for this. That the happiness
of their union has to stay forever behind closed doors, a secret for the historians who will call them
allies, beloved friends; never lovers.

Ray is not naive nor oblivious, yet he still laughs and kisses Norman on the forehead as if they were
children, "Why? Did you finally decide to accept my offer?"

He expects a reply just as silly, a game of pretend before bed, yet Norman's breath quickens, his
cheeks grow so red he is almost burning to the touch, and he kisses Ray on the mouth, serious, in full,
in earnest, and the change in the mood is so abrupt Ray thinks he is mishearing Norman's words,
mistaking them for the northern winds.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

The ritual Norman suggests is not a marriage in its purest form; they do not need other people to
recognize them as such.

They only need each other.

Adelphopoeisis joins them as brothers, joins their nations in a peaceful union for as long as they live,
under the guidance, approval, and love of the Goddess (Ray knows that the Goddess loves them far
too much, yet how could he refuse his Norman? He thinks sometimes, will she be happy for them
wherever she is? will she find their union entertaining enough?). Yes, historians will never call them
lovers, as they are bound by a spiritual brotherhood, yet Norman doesn't care for this.

Ray has never seen him so blindingly happy when their joined hands are bound with a stole. The soft
silks wrap around their skins, soothing the pain in their wounds like a bandage, stopping the blood,
and Norman looks at Ray as if he lived his whole life, tinted by grief, guilt, lies, and agony, only for
this moment, for the prayers of the choir that blesses their love, for Ray's hand in his promising him
eternal bliss, for Ray's lips on his cheek that chastely, discreetly calm him down, for, at long last,
his Ray.

Ray thinks he has never seen anyone as beautiful. When Norman kisses him on the other cheek, the
way his white eyelashes tremble against Ray's skin; when Ray carries him around the church three
times, bridal style, just like Ray in his youth dreamed of, the way Norman holds onto his shoulders
and buries his face into the crook of his neck to kiss him sneakily; when Norman, per tradition,
returns the favour and carries him around the church three times (without his wolf strength, he suffers
through it, pants, yet doesn't complain at all), the way Ray feels the safest he has ever been, cradled in
Norman's chest, feeling his erratic heart beneath the scarred palm.
In all these little ways Ray understands why Norman insisted on the ceremony, why he started
weeping without any tears, quiet, invisible to any eye but Ray’s, why they needed this, and in all the
years they've been together, he has never felt so shamelessly desired, so validated in his love.

On this fateful day when the snow is thawing in early spring and the church is hollow without the
presence of its Goddess, their souls are now as one.

The choir is silent.

No one is screaming, "Kiss the groom".
Norman is staring at Ray's lips.
Ray gulps, sighs so loud, it is the only sound, an echo, a mirror that reflects their want between the
tiny stones of vitrage windows, between the notes of long-fated sing-song prayers, between their
souls, between their lips.
Norman leans forward, ever so deliberate, ever so perceptible, asking for a seal, a loud declaration,
just what every loving couple could have whenever and wherever.
On the day that celebrates the two of them especially.

May I?

And Ray averts his eyes.

He doesn't see Norman's eyes closing, his fists balling and relaxing, him turning and slowly walking
away towards the small crowd waiting for them, watching their ceremony and their every move; he
doesn't see, but of course, he knows. Ray walks then after him, tense, seeing his back, hearing his
voice that whispers joyful thank yous among his northern friends and a lanky teen Ray doesn't
immediately recognize. A wish to apologize, to explain is stifled by a sight of Cislo, standing,
supporting himself with two crutches, chest puffed from the tight bandages; he is no paler than a
corpse, and still, his smile is wide, all blossoming and longing and alive as he looks at Norman.

No jealousy is born within Ray's chest for Cislo catches his gaze, smiles wistfully, nods, a small bow
of his head, and winks at him, all but saying I've got your back.

All Ray can do is wish for him to be able to recover.

And he almost barrels into her arms, her sweet embrace. He doesn't know how come he isn't crying
whenever she is touching him, whenever she is looking at him. Her arms are strong, yet grip is weak,
her smell familiar and faint, her hair all soft and so, so nice to the touch. He has always wondered
why the fire on his palms has never burnt him as he strokes her hair.

He bends to his full height and laughs, breathy, disbelieving, too happy, too much, "You haven't
grown an inch since last we met, my heart."

Emma gifts him the tiniest of smiles, the one he has never seen; all of her has always been boisterous
and proud and burning and so blinding and so beautiful that now Ray doesn't even recognize her low
voice when she takes his palms in hers and says, "Congratulations. How much time do we have
together?"

"We'll depart at sunrise."

"Sunrise…" She echoes, tilting her head curiously, turning it completely so her cheek faces him. "To
the sea?"
"To the sea. Norman has never seen the sea. We'll stay until his skin colour matches mine."

And Emma laughs, and laughs, and laughs, quiet, more hiccups than giggles, finding the joke funnier
than it is worth, and stills instantly, gaze faltering and hollow. Ray doesn't know if Gilda's always
been by her side, but she is here, and she touches her wrist and whispers something in her ear.
It wakes her up.

"Jemima sent you gifts." Emma blinks and whispers, a gentle smile, a proud voice, takes a small
notebook from the pockets of her skirt and outstretches it to Ray.

He takes it timidly, a little giddy. A gift? From his little Jemima? He wonders how she must look right
now… Probably all grown-up now? Would she take after Emma? Does she still like to draw? Did she
develop her own style?
He opens the notebook and stares at it, slightly dumbfounded.

A peculiar painting welcomes him on the first page, confident lines, uncoloured, it reminds him a bit
of pictures from coloring books. Yet, he cannot call it childish: there are too many details drawn on
the clothes of the men bowing before a lady that resembles Jemima (Ray recognizes her only by her
gorgeous, wide, wide smile) and on their hair. One man has familiar curly locks, and Ray cannot help
himself but snicker and coo,

"That is so cute, I can't…"

"Turn the page." Gilda interrupts in a low voice, scratchy as if she hasn't talked in a while, and still
she smiles just as blindingly proud of this little drawing, of their little Jemima.

Ray raises an eyebrow and does as told; he notices the change immediately with his artistic eye: now
grown Jemima's hands have slightly but surely shifted their position and her facial features begin to
shift into something else than utter happiness. He turns another page. Another. Small changes each
new page, and then he flicks them fast over his thumb so the drawings would form into a scene.

Now Jemima the lady holds a crown in her own hand and gently lays it on Ray's (he reckons? From
this angle he cannot quite see his trademark bangs) head, her face now overly, comically,
ceremonially serious, and then takes another crown from somewhere behind her back and lays it on
Norman's. And just as so her whole face shatters to reveal her sweetest smile and then she hugs them
both so fiercely they nearly tumble and knock their heads and crowns against each other.
The last page is them three. Hugging her. Hugging each other.

"This is incredible." Ray can only gape in utter awe. No wonder these drawings aren't coloured. "I've
never seen anything like it! This is so talented, that is such an amazing gift! Holy Mother, I… Will
she come soon so I can thank her and discuss this wonder in person?"

Something stills in the air between them as Ray says this. Heavy, invisible, smelling of guilt and
unspoken horror.

"She…" Emma starts and ashens, swallowing a knot in her throat. "I'm afraid she can't. She's still
recovering, and she doesn't leave her room and doesn't speak a word with anyone after… after…"

After.

Gilda takes Emma's hand, grounding her to the present, and only then Ray pays attention to how her
breathing calms from shallow to more even, how her eyes become conscious again, how she tilts her
head so she'd hear him better with only one of her ears intact, and how below the glowing chandeliers,
her flaming red hair shines with occasional strands of grey.

"Emma…" Ray says quietly, afraid to trigger her into this state again, and hides the notebook in his
own pockets. "Are you alright?"

Her face lights up at that question alone; reminiscing of nostalgic good old days when there was only
one worry on their minds and they were twirling dancing dreaming loving with their whole hearts.
Unbroken. Still alive.
She answers him honestly, just the same as he once said to her,

"No. I am not alright."

Emma lowers her head, and Ray notices how Gilda ashens, how she doesn't want to hear it, and Ray
catches her trembling eyes and mouths only "Not your fault". He means that it wasn't her who started
the war, she didn't cause it, she couldn't have prevented it, and Jemima's and Emma's sufferings are
not her doing.
That is not the only thing on her mind, it seems, and Gilda's eyes focus intensely on the middle of
Ray's chest.
The spot where she pierced him through. Where she struck him dead. That was her doing, wasn't it?

Ray smiles reassuringly, exhaustion and a colour of Death that he will never be able to wash away
tainting his features, and shakes his head.

He mouths, "Not your fault" and "We are still alive".

And Gilda hides her eyes.

That is okay. She will need more time.
They will all need much more time than that to heal.

Emma raises her head and starts the story of their salvation in a calm, emotionless, uncaring voice. It
doesn't require a skillful bard for what and how she is telling it is being etched in Ray's mind with a
knife that cut Emma's ear clean.
Their blood mixes, and Ray sees it all unfolding before his eyes.

"I wish I could forget it. I wish Father was still here and could have twisted my mind, the way he did
with everyone he met. I wish he could have erased the memories of pain, this sickly smell, the days of
seeing Jemima and Phil curled in a corner without being able to help me. All they could do was sit
and stare and watch me slowly bleed to death and just as slowly die themselves. It was a silent torture.

In hindsight, I believe I was supposed to perish there from simple blood loss or blood poisoning for
them to break, for them to be unmendable in this new world where I would be too strong-willed to
bend.

I couldn't close my eyes. I couldn't scream from pain. I couldn't cry. I couldn't console them.
Sometimes I thought I couldn't even breathe. It was just me, my mind, and blood, my life seeping
slowly from my ear.
My mind didn't treat me kindly.
It showed me vividly a War between Sachevia and Verhs where everyone I loved died under the
bloody rains. I saw a plague touching upon the skin of my people with each drop of red water, all of
them falling not to rise again. I saw Gilda marching with our army and killing everyone still
magically alive in my name. I saw you die by her hand, Ray, and then Norman killing himself and
falling on top of your body.
And then I saw nothing. No one on the streets. No one alive and no one dead. A deserted world where
only us three were left.
And I believed it all.

I thought Father was kind to us. I thought he saved us from witnessing my people dying, from the
whole world burning. I thought we couldn't move from shock, but then Anna told me what she saw,
the very realistic show of Isabella murdering us all in cold blood, and then I understood what was
happening to all of our minds.

I wonder how Father had been influencing us for all of our lives… I wonder if this was how he killed
my Mom…
By torturing her so slowly, so methodically not even she would have noticed until it was too late for
all of us.

It felt like weeks for me in this underground room, but surely it wasn't even an hour. Blood from my
ear still kept seeping out when a woman barged in.
I've never seen her or anyone like her. As tall as my Father, she wore a gown and a blindfold that used
to be pristinely white but then were drenched in gruesome red. She dragged us all out, carrying me in
her arms, and in the streets, it was all exactly like visions from my mind. That meant that all of it was
true, and everyone was dead.

And in her arms, I started crying.

Mujika, as she introduced herself, saved us, took care of us, healed me, she gave us refuge, and told
us not to ever take a step out of the house. We never did. Not like I could.
I could breathe again when she was near me. Yet, I still couldn't move, couldn't talk as if my body
couldn't fully return to me. I was completely paralyzed.

It changed one day.

It rained all the time, but that night it poured. Phil slept on the couch and Jemima near me on the bed,
and we all felt that, this excruciating pain in our chests as if someone tore us open and wanted an even
wider opening. I couldn't utter a sound, Phil fainted from pain, and Jemima screamed, and Mujika ran
to her and cradled her in her arms and told her that this would pass, that she felt that too, that she was
such a strong girl, that we all would make it through this, that she was so sorry, that it was all their
fault, but all of that would pass…

I remember it clearly.
The rain stopping. The quiet. The pain letting go of us.
The feeling of my fingers. The weight of my whole body crushing on me.
And Mujika. Turning to dust in Jemima's arms.

It's always quiet with Jemima now. Just like it was at that moment."

Quiet.

As if the church got deserted.

As if the whole world died out.

"Emma…" Ray tries to find his voice and makes life tick yet again.
"I presume that is what happened to Father as well." Emma continues with a lot more emotions in her
voice: deathly fatigue, disappointment, and exasperation. "Despite what he did, I hate him not for
what he had done but for what he can no longer do. I can't forget it, Ray. I will never forget it. I'm not
the person I once was, and his calculations were wrong: he broke me. I am unmendable. I cannot be
put back together again. My family is in disrepair, my whole country needs me as their ruler, as their
Mother, and I am losing sense of who I am, and when it becomes clearer in my head, if I just dare to
laugh and smile, my mind stomps me with pain, with images of my dead Mom being eaten alive, of
Mujika turned into dust, of you with a sword through in your chest, of silent Jemima, of Phil who
cannot look me in the eye for I remind him far too much of these horrific nights, and I think I truly, I
am forever gone. I hate my Father, I despise him, but I wish before he turned to ashes he could have
done one truly good thing in his life and wiped my whole memory clean."

"My heart… I…" Ray wants to say something fundamental, something final, a speech that will heal
her instantly, but he knows that these words do not exist. No number of wise, considerate words was
enough to heal him from his Father's death. It took time and so much of Emma's… "I love you,
Emma."

And Emma stills at these words as if her body got unused to them as if they do not fit into her new
world anymore, as if she doesn't know what she is supposed to do with them.

"I love you, and Gilda loves you, and your Mom had always loved you, and so did Mujika, and so do
Jemima and Phil, and so did, in his very twisted way, your Father. Because you are so much brighter
than we are, because you held my hand when all I wanted was to die after my Father, you didn't let
me crumble, you didn't let me forget him. You kissed my forehead, you were with me with each step,
and I moved past this endless pain and guilt, I moved forward exactly because I cannot forget. And I
will never forget.

And all that matters right now is that we are still alive, that all of us still love each other, and I do not
want to agree with your bastard of a Father, but he was right. You are so much stronger than anyone I
know, you've always been and you always will. And you'll move past it. And you'll move forward.
Because we love you. I love you so, so mu…"

And she crushes into his chest. She stays there like a lost kitten who has found its mom, like Ray is
her protection from her ruminations, and all he can do is laugh quietly and stroke her wild hair,
soothing her pain, soothing her mind.
He notices at the corner of an eye Gilda looking at them with an expression he cannot recognize. This
is certainly not jealousy but still something deeply forlorn and grateful.

I wish I could help too.

I wish someone could help me too.

Ray doesn't understand which of these two dwells in her eyes. Maybe it is both.

He outstretches one arm, inviting her to their embrace.

She accepts it.

Little sways from side to side, quiet little words that are supposed to comfort and make no sense, tiny
kisses on the crown of their heads, extinguished fire and withered grass, he hugs them to his chest,
both fierce and kind, and sighs quietly,

"It’s a shame there is no adelphopoiesis for women… I wish I could be present for yours."

They step away from him in perfect synchrony and blush and stutter both.
"What do you mean, you mean, u-us, together in a u-union, you know Ray, this is supposed to unite
lands, and…"
"What are you implying, Holy Mother, this is supposed to be your happy day, and I ruined it for you,
I'm so sorry…"

"That would be way too funny to call you sisters in Goddess, that is true." Ray smiles wide with all of
his teeth, seeing them more alive. "Although this could be arranged. I'm on good terms with the
Goddess, so… If you really want to…"

An even harder blush is burning on their cheeks, and Gilda throws him a very nasty look before
turning and walking away hastily.

"Ah… I think I rushed it a little bit… Well, I suppose, be prepared for a proposal to come, my heart."

He sees it instantly. His favourite smile in the whole world. Born from their childhood, from ear to
ear, showing all teeth, eyes crinkled, unfit for an Empress, amused and overjoyed to the point it is the
only overtaking feeling, that makes all nightmares fall asleep, that makes them dull, that makes them
bearable and mendable and his Emma all aflame again.

"I love you, too, Ray." His heart embraces him again shortly and half-turns to say. "I will not let you
pass my border if Norman is still white-skinned by the time you return."

And there she goes running after her beloved.

Ray would have loved to do the same and let Norman's arms take care of him and his growing
weariness, but then he spots approaching elegant blond hair, the doll-like blue of her eyes, yet he
doesn't detect the shyness he grew up used seeing in her frame. Instead, he notices strange
determination and fire in her eyes, and at this moment for the first time he sees her for what she is, for
what she probably always has been: the Princess of the Verhs Empire.

A simple exchange of formalities: a polite curtsy from her, a gentleman's way of respect from him—a
bow and a light kiss on her palm. This is ingrained in their skulls, and still, this greeting feels like it
came from a different life…
Like Anna came from a different life. And he doesn't know her anymore.

"I am very happy for you, Your Majesty."

Even her smile is born from fairytales: gentle, beautiful, shining. Mannered. Doll-like. Fake.

He cannot resist raising an eyebrow, cannot hold back a surprised tone as he forgets of manners and
shoots out, "You are?"

"Indeed, I am, Ray. Truly." She spells his name, and her wooden smile gains an edge, something deep,
alive, and bitter. Her eyes quickly appraise him up and down to settle on his unkempt bangs and a low
ponytail that's carelessly thrown over his shoulder. "I don't quite comprehend what I used to find in
you. I'm glad your…" And her whole form becomes that of mischief as she takes a long pause, smirks
knowingly, puts a finger on her lips, and darts a quick look of narrowed eyes in Norman's direction.
"Northern King worships even the ground you walk on."

Ray barks a startled laugh at that: he cannot believe there has always been so much character hidden
in this frail girl behind a thick veil of shyness, stiffness, and little stutters.
"I don't love you, Ray. I've never loved you." Anna says with such a gentle smile, with such kind,
pitying eyes that Ray feels for a meager second that he is being rejected. On the day of his
adelphopoiesis. "You were Emma's, and I was… jealous… of everything she had. Her shine, her
radiance, the unconditional love of our people, of everyone who dared to gaze at her light. I was a
second thought for Mother, a second daughter who isn't the heir, who isn't perfect, who isn't even red-
haired; even Father left me live for I am the weakest, a shadow, easiest to manipulate. And I was so…
so jealous of your love for her. It was the truest, most romantic kind, and she didn't love you back
while I could, and you didn't see me… You know, I thought… In fairytales a Prince always chooses
the best, the purest, the most worthy girl and turns her into his Princess. I thought if you had chosen
me, you would have saved me. I know that your Mother wouldn't let you stay King, that you were her
pawn that she hated, that she wanted to get rid of as soon as possible, but if you loved me, you could
have insisted on your own way. I would have been your Queen, I would have thought I loved you
madly, that you were my savior and I was your willing bondwoman. I would have been radiant, I
would have been loved unconditionally, I would have blossomed, I would have been free. I would
have stepped out of her shadow and become the true Sun.
And you chose… a King. A man. With questionable qualities."

Ray isn't sure what now her pretty, guarded face is allowing him to see now: he sees affront and
bitterness. Above all else, he sees her pride. Her awe.
Her fascination.

"I am sorry, Anyut… I cannot rule over my heart."

"I know. Neither can I. I wish I could… I do not think I ever…"

He wants to tell her that this is okay; that life is so much more than romantic love, but does he even
have the right to say anything to her? To the person who was obsessed with the idea of at least
someone loving her in any way while his whole life is made of people who love him in this sacred
way: unconditionally?

So, he stays silent.

Anna doesn't notice his unease and continues her musings, brows furrowed, a whisper, "To think I
almost had everything I'd wanted. And in the end… I was left all alone."

Ray looks at her, studies her sadness, the inner power in her posture, her loneliness of such an extent
she is willing to talk her heart out to him, a person who never even noticed her, whom she didn't see
for many years, who celebrates the day of love she never truly felt, and sees her, finally, for what she
is.

She does not need to become the sun; she is not overshadowed by it, she basks in its light, she is only
stronger for it, more radiant, her shadow that much longer; and even so, even if the burning fire in her
eyes might be redundant when the sun's aglow, yet it is cold, it is winter now, and she is the only one
who is sane, who is burning, who can help.

Fire is not just red; it is yellow, too.

"I am sorry, Ray, I just… I do not know what came over me, I…" Anna bites her lip, frustrated, and
says the words with a heavy sigh. "You didn't tell Emma I loved her, too."

"You should tell her that yourself." He smiles a tired little smile at her and outstretches an arm for her
to take.
She looks at it warily before giving his palm the gentlest of squeezes before letting go immediately.

And that is a start.

"I will. And I truly wish you happiness. Ray."

Ray watches her walk away to Emma, her beautiful dress swaying in step with her gait, the resolve in
her shoulders, and on sudden contrast he wishes to sit down… Can't someone for a change just come
to him and congratulate him without having him talk about their inner wounds?

A thudding, insistent exhaustion taps on his eyelids, and Ray already wants to close his eyes and rub
them vigorously to shake it off…
His eyes are open, and still, the darkness falls. He blinks a couple of times in the black and lights up
with a smile despite himself. His fingers trace the hot hands over his eyes and recognize the pattern:
scratchy, slightly hairy, thickly veined, rough, and then he hooks two fingers to gently touch
numerous calluses over the stranger's palm.

Of course, it is no stranger.

"Don."

Don reveals the world and steps around, shyly holding Ray's two fingers in his hand.

He looks ridiculous in those prim clothes the people of nobility deem fashionable: jabot makes him
look like a puffed-up turkeycock, the laces on his trousers are outrageous, and a long jacket makes his
impressive height stand out even more. Ray laughs out loud, unrestrained, tears almost bristling from
his eyes, and Don raises his shoulders, covering his neck, and all that's left is this jabot, and Ray
cannot stand it, this is way too–

"Yer Highness, this is not funny! Miss Gilda told me we would be coming to yer wedding and I better
come not in my britches, and here I was, dressing all proper, calling for a favour, and what for?! Ray,
what for, I didn't even get to see ya kissing yer husband! What kind of sham is that?!!"

"It"s, it's not, Holy Mother," Ray cannot for the life of him stop laughing and inhales strongly to
recover, still giggling, his efforts all be damned. "It's not a wedding, not exactly. And we are not…
exactly husbands."

"I don't... Won't there be any kisses?" Don scratches his head in deep confusion, and his face falls in
severe disappointment when the corners of Ray's eyes crinkle in a smile and he shakes his head.
"Aww… that's a shame. I don't really understand, but are ya happy?"

Ray nods immediately.

He is. He hasn't ever been this happy in his entire life.

"Then that is all that matters".

And Don seems happy for him too, if not for his body language: he tugs on his jabot, awkward,
shoulders near his jaw, a spine crooked, all to seem smaller, less…

"You know, Don, you look positively outstanding. You could as well have been a groom, not me. You
shouldn't hide."

A white lie is a good lie, Ray reasons to himself.

"Ray…" Don squeezes Ray's fingers, his posture straightening, eyes shining bright, voice going
slightly wobbly. "Thank you… Me, a groom… That woulda been so nice, a wedding, ya know, but
not like yers, not that there's anything wrong with yours, sorry, yers is not a wedding? Anyway, I'd
really love to get married someday, flowers, my village, my whole family, sun and river, lots of beer,
and I haven't told ya this yet, but I have a boyfriend now, he is the sweetest guy on earth, so jolly,
carefree, spirited, honest, just perfect, his name is Nat, and I think sometimes if we could do that
together, the wedding thing, Papa told me I have to be absolutely sure this is my person, and I told
him and I'm telling you, he is great in be-"

All this talk about weddings and happiness, this endless stream of words Ray, quite frankly, grew
weary of listening to, even whilst trying hard to, draws Ray's attention to the circle of the Northerners.
He is trying to spot Norman among them, maybe give him a smile and receive the warmest one in
kind that would give him strength to carry on this long, long day, but all he sees is Barbara inclining
her head on Vincent's shoulder, Phil talking animatedly with Zazie and Cislo, and them all explaining
to the young Verhs Prince what kind of thing separation of powers is.

That is the politics Norman discussed with Ray at length; in place of a tradition of absolute reign by
combat and the Holy Church governing over every aspect of northern life, they had to concoct a new
system entirely.

Together.
Ray's chest warms at the very thought.
They are now bound and are together.

Where is he?...

"So, it's no pressure, honestly, but would ya like to join us one day?"

Ray blinks and focuses his attention on Don.

He looks as cheerful as always, yet something deeply uncertain, bashful covers in the corners of his
smile, like this is truly grave and he just doesn't wish to show it. Whatever it is, it must be important
to him, and who is Ray, indeed, to refuse his dear friend?

Ray doesn't think further than that before answering, "Sure, I wouldn't mind."

And Don's eyes fall out of their sockets. He doesn't utter a word. And grows and grows so red it is
visible even on his dark, tanned skin…

Ray's eyebrows furrow. What did he agree to, exactly?

A presence, achingly familiar, powerful, freezing, sinister, and yet so warm, so gentle presses on
Ray's back and envelopes him, and Ray can do nothing but close his eyes for a blissful second, lean
into him, back to chest, lean closer, and when he feels the heat of Norman's body against his own,
even through their clothes, he understands how devastatingly he missed him.

His lips he missed that much too barely touch Ray's neck, ever so perceptible it is more of Norman's
breaths he feels than of his lips.
It makes him shudder.
His arms he missed that calculatedly press on Ray's hand that is still connected with Don's and trap it
in between Norman's elbow and Ray's body. One hand like that embraces him by the waist; the other
reaches across Ray's torso to cup him by the shoulder.
He missed him so crucially, so terribly, but does Norman really have the need to hold him so?

With one free arm, Ray pushes Norman's arm that's crossed over his torso away, and Norman
retaliates by pinning Ray's palm immobile to Ray's collarbone.
He cannot even move a muscle now. Imprisoned in Norman's arms. All done as if in order to protect
and not to let him take another step.

"I'm sorry, Don, what was…" Heavy irritation in Ray's voice is cut abruptly when he feels the full
shape of Norman's lips on his neck, pressing, kissing, opening wider, and his tongue swiping over
Ray's bare skin so slightly it might have been Ray's imagination, and yet just the same it sends
avalanches down his body he doesn't even know how he suppressed. "...W-what was the question?"

A quiet titter tickles Ray's neck, the breaths ghosting in a beautiful rhyme against Ray's definitely wet
skin, and Norman says, releasing him, "You agreed to something, no questions asked, and you don't
even know what that is? You're hopeless, Ray."

The whole context finally dawns on Ray. It makes him want to hide in hideous embarrassment, but
the only thing he truly needs right now is to smack Norman's head in earnest for he knows Ray
doesn't take pleasure in being restricted.
Only Norman's mischievous, apologetic, 'I'll make it up to you' look makes Ray consider postponing
his childish punishment.

Don stares at them, looking like a person whose blood is made of lava.

"S-sorry, Don. We are content so far… with our life in that regard. If that changes…" Ray stutters and
wants to hit something hard. Someone. Perhaps himself.

"It won't change. Thank you very much for coming, Don." Norman says, doubtless, sounding
disgustingly pleased with himself, and shakes Don's hand firmly.

Don sighs, puzzled beyond measure once again, and grumbles, "And Ray told me there wouldn't be
any kisses… Pants on fire."

Unease and awkwardness all pop in a fit of a buoyant laugh that surprisingly doesn't come from Ray
alone for Norman's laughing too.
Laughing with him. Laughing together.

Warmth envelopes his hand, Norman's fingers interlacing with Ray's; it is a familiar feeling, akin to
breathing for them, a need to feel each other's skin. Yet warmth is a new element, startling, welcome,
it resonates, it compliments the expression Norman is wearing whenever he looks at Ray these
months after Ray's 'death': it has always been adoring, worshiping even, but now it is crawling deep
within Ray's mind, stuttering his breathing, painting his cheeks an embarrassing dark red; it tells him
of love he never knew existed, of love so strong that denies death, that topples Gods, that makes the
hand of King of North so warm…
It all makes sense now. His whole life, full of innate, endless suffering… It all led to this gaze. This
warmth.

To his Norman.

"Hey, loverbirds!" Ray blinks rapidly, conscious again of their surroundings, and sees Barbara on her
way to the doorway of the ceremonial hall. The last one. "Canoodle later! You better come with us
'cause we will not leave you anything delicious."
"A minute, Barb!" Norman shouts gently. "We'll come in a minute."

"Ha! Sure. I am so timing you." She barks and has the utter gall to wink at them before disappearing
behind large wooden doors.

"Barb? You made peace with her?" Ray muses in a whisper.

Norman hums, a long, pensive sound, attracting Ray's attention back to him. A mistake—Norman is
devouring Ray's lips with his eyes, all scrumptious, grand feasts unneeded. "May I kiss you now?"

"Norman!" Ray screams, and the name in his voice, appalled, taken aback, almost offended, falls on
their heads in a strong echo. Ray hisses then at him in an angry whisper, never minding Norman's wry
face. "Did you hear my question?"

"No. Did you hear mine? I fear I've gone completely deaf… You ought to yell my name in different
situa…"

"Norman." Ray repeats very slowly, strictly, chastising. Most importantly, quietly. "I can't believe I
have to say this to you. We are at church…"

"And? There are no people anym…"

Norman's whole face changes in a blink. Ray only manages to see how his gaze becomes feral, a flash
of bared teeth, how for a second the wolf that the Goddess took away from him returns anew before
Norman pulls Ray behind his back with brutal, bone-cracking force.

Ray does not have in him to be enraged at Norman for trying to protect him. He strokes Norman's
shoulder and arm ever so carefully before whispering, "It's okay, Norman. It's…"

Before finally noticing who Norman is almost growling at.

No one saw her. No one expected her. Still, Ray should have felt her coming. She stands there, a
white dress, long black hair tied in a ponytail that is thrown over her shoulder instead of a neat and
stately bun. Covered by the shadows that have always been her true home.

His Mother stands there like a bride, and her wobbling, wide smile accentuates the lines of passing
time and burdens near her nose.

Ray gasps, and everything hurts within: his chest, his scar, his head, his heart. He cannot look away as
her expression falls: her smile crumbles, her eyelids lower, revealing a popping blue vein, her
wrinkles smooth away. It almost seems like that one smile was just a mirage of Ray's, and now this
guarded, neutral face will contort into something far more familiar: disgust, calculation, and di-sap-
point-ment…

He doesn't want to see this face ever again.

And yet he longs for her so badly…

Whether Norman lets him go this easily or Ray is this strong he just as easily breaks free from
Norman's hold, Ray doesn't know. The only thing that's certain now is that he is bowing before her; he
didn't bow before anyone in these long five years… He is a man now, a King, the crown took root on
his scalp, the sharp edges of it, the onyx stones blend with his locks. Responsibility it holds now
covers him, heavy furs without which one cannot withstand the North.
He is the King now. Norman has always loved him.
She was wrong.
And even still, he feels like a wet boy… He tucks his fringe behind his ear, straightens his shoulders,
an immaculate bow, even after all these years, instinctive. What a pathetic little thing.

Gentle, oh, so gentle, it feels like she is burning his skin with red-hot metal, hands take him by the
temples and guide him closer. Guide him so close… he doesn't understand the feeling. He barely
recognizes it.

"Mother?..."

Her lips connecting with his forehead.

His whole body goes limp in her arms; his mind doesn't connect the dots. He is taller than her, he
always has been, he is a grown adult now, so why… Why does her embrace is that of a Mother
holding her sweet little son, ever-present, her smell, the haze over his thoughts, the comfort she brings
as she lulls him in her arms and slowly rocks them from side to side.

She brings peace. It is more than a soft pillow and a heavy blanket after a tiring day without a blink of
sleep; more than rays of sun Ray felt for the first time on his skin in five long years; more than
waking up alive after he was struck dead time and time again.

Peace.
The world in the cocoon of her arms does not know shame, hatred, political intrigues, demons, death,
toxic feelings, scars, inner, irrevocable wounds.
It only knows that Ray is safe, and that was, has been, will ever be the truth of this eternity.

"Ray…"

And he wakes from his dream. Opens his eyes, listens to the echo of her voice: wispy, quiet, tear-
ridden, pained. Feels the fingers on his hair quiver, trembling twigs of a tree, ready to snap.
Guilty.

"I beg of you to forgive me, I wasn't supposed to come, you didn't invite me, you do not want to see
me after everything, but I couldn't resist seeing you so happy… I truly do not deserve you… You died
because of me so many times, and I did and told you only foul, unworthy of you things, I am so
sorry…"

"Mama…" he interrupts, and the sole world sends a raw shock through their bodies. They flinch,
electrocuted, and stay still.
He hasn't said this in a long while. The word resonates in a tired drumbeat in their ears, pricking them
with numbness in their limbs and hearts.

She doesn't say anything further, and Ray sighs a boulder of relief from his shoulders.
He doesn't wish to hear these words from her. He understands everything to her core: her reasons, her
pain, and her hatred. He simply… loves her and is happy that she is alive, that he saved her, that she is
embracing him with a love he had forgotten as if he were a baby and Father was still alive, and it
seems almost vile to mar the moment with these…

Her tone changes. For a while, Ray doesn't comprehend what she is whispering to him—a mantra in a
language no one taught him, of a religion the Goddess of which he didn't meet. His heart knows
before his mind, however, for he starts crying just before he finally differentiates the coherency of
words,
"I am so proud of you. My son, my Prince, my strongest child. You are everything good from your
Father, you are everything good from this world. The gentlest, firmest, kindest soul, you deserve this.
Friends and allies who can heal you, the love who will always adore you before the world itself, a
Mother on whose shoulder you can cry and who will accept you no matter what… I'll always be
waiting for you."

Ray doesn't understand what's happening to him and why he cannot stop crying.
These are more powerful than 'I love you' she never could have spelled for him.
He does this for her. For them both.

"I love you, Mam."

He nuzzles into her more, accepting the lack of a reply.

Even if it is still hard for her… He knows. That is enough.

The notion of time is lost on them. Ray thinks he has fallen into a deep sleep from which he does not
wish to return. Into a coma better than life itself.
All things still have to come to an end, even the sleep, even the tears, even the smell, the embrace of
his Mama, and now he is dancing with reality. It is loud, it is echoing, it is the day of his
adelphopoiesis. He is at the church, and the love that has always adored him before the world itself is
staring at him like a cornered beast.

His chin and eyebrow are raised, his arms are crossed over his chest, his gaze is empty, hostile,
arrogant… A clear show of disbelief, annoyance, and impatient worry. It is understandable. Norman
never loved her, always saw her as a threat, never believed she could be forgiven for how she treated
her own son.
Yet Ray reads him well, he isn't fooled. He sees the hidden signs, the broken boy within his Norman.
He sees jealousy.
He is not the only one.

Isabella outstretches her hand to him. The conversation they share with their eyes is silent—Ray
doesn't even try to 'eavesdrop'. Whatever she said to him, it works for Norman, and he comes closer,
tense, slow, contempt written all over his face.
It dissipates as he accepts her palm in his.
He doesn't resist as she brings him closer. He doesn't reciprocate the embrace, doesn't react to his
locks being caressed. He is an ice statue in her arms, and Ray puts an arm around him too. Norman is
melting then, each muscle of his growing weaker, droplets falling from his clothes.

Isabella starts humming a song.

The tune from Ray's forgotten childhood when everyone was happy and alive resounds in an empty
church hall. It calms him, it is overwhelming, it makes him want to share the joy it brings, it makes
him so, so sure that everything will be alright.

Ray kisses Norman on the head with gentleness he never knew he had in him, and Norman gasps, a
cracked, pained sound, another note that fits into the hum.

Legravalima is gone, just like all demons left within this realm. Norman's Mother will not be able to
sing to him or embrace him like this any longer. There won't be any more words for them, forgiving,
pleading, any at all…
A picture of Norman gazing down at her with worship in his eyes, and Legravalima with her eyes
covered scratching his cheek to blood stands vividly before Ray's eyes.
Norman's Mother's gone. Or maybe there never was a Mother for him to begin with.
Did she ever embrace him like this?
Maybe it is not so much Isabella he despised, Ray wonders. Could he not have believed Legravalima
could be forgiven for how she treated her own son but never could have allowed himself the thought?
Did she ever love him?

All things come to an end, and so does Isabella's song. Norman thinks it is his cue to shake their
hands off of him, to retract from their embrace, a head lowered. Silent.

Ray intertwines his fingers with Norman's and kisses Isabella on the cheek.

"I wanted you to come, Mam. Join our guests… We'll come after soon enough."

She smiles an understanding smile at them, kisses them both, quickly, affectionately on the crown of
their heads (Ray has to bend for that, Norman not so much), and leaves in haste.

Norman raises his head when the doors screech, signifying her leave.

What once was a collected, magnificent statue of a King is now just a puddle of a simple man.
Ray loves him either way.

"I'm sorry, Ray… I-I think I need a moment."

So quiet his words do not even echo.

Ray guides him to hide behind a giant pillar where "No one will see us", their shoulders touch a cold,
intricate stone, and Norman's tears are hot against Ray's shoulder, the only indication of his
'weakness', the one thing only Ray's allowed to feel, not even witness. His shoulders do not tremble,
not even a tiny sound comes from his contracting throat.

Ray holds him in his arms and lets the time and his presence calm Norman's mind, frantic, tangled in
memories of love, neglect, and pain.

A long, heavy exhale is born at last from Norman's lungs, and Ray presses him closer only for
Norman to pull back. Ray expects to read a lot from his gaze: fatigue, gratefulness, perhaps relief.

He doesn't expect guilt.

"Don't say this to me." Ray warns, firm.

Norman rubs his reddened eyes and says in a very even voice as if this didn't just happen to him, "I
will. It was supposed to be a day of joy for us, but everyone kept weeping on your shoulder. Forgive
me for adding to your worries."

"You are not a worry to me, Norman."

"Still, I wish I could ease your mind… I know." Norman narrows his eyes, a deviously foxish gleam,
and his hands lie on Ray's hips to cage him between Norman's body and a pillar. "Want me to tell you
a secret?"

"Do you still have any from me?" Ray mimics his whisper, barely suppressing a light-hearted laugh,
understanding perfectly well from where the sudden shift in tone appeared.

Whatever makes Norman feel better.

"I cannot wait for the night. You'll be surprised by what I planned." Norman murmurs in Ray's ear,
and Ray cannot suppress a shiver.
He cannot help it. This is ridiculous: their eyes are puffy from crying their eyes out, they are at church
where their actions would be obscene (and Norman is the initiator and a believer, not him!), and yet
no one can truly see them, Ray's head feels like a cloud that only yearns for a long, blissful rest
among Norman's touches, and if Norman dares to do this again, Ray will kiss him himself.

"Whatever could you be talking about? Surely, you are not implying what happens during the
wedding night? We are not wed, however, and we will not be making–" Ray mumbles just to tease.
Just to distract from how much he truly enjoys this whole situation.

"Love? Of course not. Just pure, chaste brotherly bonding."

"Holy!... This is horrible. You are horrible." Ray laughs at his blatantly seductive tone, and Norman
shrugs as if saying this is who you chose.

"Want to start our… bonding?" Norman suggests playfully, deadly seriously, staring at Ray's mouth,
and Ray watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows at the sight of Ray parting his lips so very
slightly it might seem unintentional. To anyone but Norman.

"No indecencies at the church?"

"No indecencies at the church."

"Then yes. I'd like that." His words and his breath are caught in his throat when their lips brush, not
quite connecting, not quite kissing.

By the hunger in Norman's eyes, Ray expects something violent, ravenous, teeth clicking, lips bitten,
tongues sucked on, yet Norman surprises him. He is slow as his lips move against Ray's, caressing
him, one long press by the next, push and pull, and in the middle between them, Ray feels like he is
falling, like Norman's kisses are the only thing keeping him grounded, and he is circling Norman's
waist with his hands and pressing him closer, so there wouldn't even be a pause, so that he wouldn't
fall.
Norman's lips tremble in a quiet, throaty laughter, reverberating against Ray's skin; in an attempt to
soothe him, Norman cups his cheek and strokes his skin with a thumb, the other hand tangling in his
hair on the nape of his neck, scratching lightly, pulling, twirling his strands, and Ray's mouth opens
uselessly. A quiet moan is muffled by Norman pressing against his lips with force, it is lost in his
open mouth, in the lungs suddenly filled by Norman's fast, hot breath, in their tongues that meet and
separate for them to meet again, again, again until there is only a mind-numbing feeling of Norman
flowing inside his every vein. Ray, hardly comprehending what he is doing, finds Norman's spine
with the tips of his fingertips and caresses it, slow, feather-light, counting every bone touch mingles
with his nails running across Norman's sensitive nerves, and Norman shudders, pulls at Ray's hair
harder, and arches his back away from Ray's fingers so their bodies are even closer. So close Ray
loses sense of himself and doesn't know anymore who is touching, who is kissing who, yet he is
certain when Ray catches Norman's lower lip between his own and sucks hard Norman is the first to
move away.

"Where are you going?" Ray blinks away the haze from his eyes and doesn't think when he grips
Norman by the hips and moves him closer. The reaction is instantaneous from them both: one sighs
and grasps the other's shoulder, the other rolls his eyes and swallows loudly, barely controlling his
breathing.
"No indecencies at the church, remember?" Norman pecks Ray on the lips quickly and cackles when
his King doesn't even fathom the idea of separating and follows his lips. "Wait for the night. I promise
it'll be worth it."

And that is that. The end of their little sneaking out session. Yet Norman doesn't move away, doesn't
end it there. He studies Ray, every movement of his eyes followed by the fingers: he traces the shape
of Ray's eyebrows, stroking them multiple times, moves to outline the bridge of his nose from the
eyebrows to the tip, lowers to marvel at the slight plumpness of the lips, massages the curves of his
ears, and then their eyes lock. Ray thought he was used to this insurmountable adoration in Norman's
eyes, but now he wants to hide: Norman shakes just barely and looks at him as if in his black eyes he
sees the answer, the light, salvation, the very essence of his life… It hurts so much to hold his gaze. It
is so sweet Ray cannot look away.

"I still cannot believe this is all over. That you are alive, with me, I am no longer dying, and you will
stay with me until the end of time. That we can be together, and our souls are now united, and nothing
waits for us but boring lives and bliss, and we are free, and I am yours, and you are mine. I think I'm
dreaming… I am sometimes so sure I made you up. That you cannot be real. That you will disappear
when I blink, when I wake up; I do not deserve you. I do not deserve your soul. All I can do is love
you, and only hope that at one point in our long, long lives you will be able to…"

"You needn't my forgiveness, Norman. I love you, too. That is enough."

Norman's eyebrows furrow, and his jaw tightens, clear disapproval on the face. He already opens his
mouth to contradict (Ray cannot suppress a smile: they just got 'married', and the first argument is
already upon them), yet a familiar female voice interrupts him,

"Where are my holy brothers when I need them?"

"Probably already kissing their way to the bedroom."

Norman sighs, reluctantly moving away from Ray's body, shakes his head, throws a dirty look at Ray,
silently mouthing this is not over, and disappears, leaving Ray alone behind a pillar.

"No, actually, we are about done."

"So quickly? You, men, sure are fast in your affairs. Gilda and I…"

"I truly do not need to know that."

Their laughter rings throughout the church, so warm and loud it seems even the Goddess smiles at
them from above.

Ray doesn't join them for a while. He thinks about Norman's thin lips and his faint touch along Ray's
face.

Ray cannot wait for the night as well.

For their life together.

He is beautiful, all naked and tied down.

A black blindfold covers his eyes, a blue catastrophe just waiting for a spark to be ignited, unseen and
absolute; Ray ties down an elaborate knot behind Norman's back, binding his wrists together with a
silky shawl made with silver strands, and Norman groans, checking if the knot is too easy for him to
get out of,

"Tighter."

"I don't want to hurt you." Ray says, meaning it: he truly doesn't wish for Norman's wrists to be
covered in bruises.

"You don't?" Norman asks, almost uneasy, and twitches, unable to free himself. "You can do whatever
you want to me."

And he stands there, in the middle of their room, wrapped and tied like a gift Ray has always wanted
—take him and he is yours.

"Whatever I want…"

A dream. That feels so lucid still… Norman's body that Ray has never seen so bare is barely
trembling right before him, and Ray is touching his tense spine, white, whiter than his skin, scars
scattered all around his back, criss-crossing, long, so many that unscarred skin feels like an oversight
or… a form of perverted art. It pains Ray just to contour them, just to imagine what it must have felt
like to be whipped like this time and time again, and a ghastly feeling is boiling in Ray's stomach, a
cruel, certain understanding that if perchance Norman's Father was still alive, Ray would have killed
him with thousands of deaths and buried him under the snow while still alive where no one would
have missed him and suffered from memories of torture coming to his grave.

Ray kisses Norman's back covered in scars, not missing even a millimeter. He kisses as if he could
heal them, make them disappear under the lips: Norman's ribs, his spine, the place above his waist,
and everywhere he touches is a scar, its ending, its beginning, never-ending.

And Norman takes a tiny step from Ray's lips, moans loudly, unexpectedly, as if he tried so hard to
suppress it for a long time, and failed miserably, pathetically, deliciously. Ray never heard such
sounds coming from Norman's mouth before.

He likes it an exorbitant amount.

It will be worth it, indeed…

Ray lays his chin on Norman's shoulder gently, all not to spook him, smirks in a positively evil way,
glad Norman cannot see him, and whispers in his burning ear, "Changed your mind?"

It takes a shuddering breath for him to answer, "No."

"Turn around then."

And Norman complies at once. Ray isn't sure if that is because his back is too sensitive, and he wishes
to hide it longer, or if he just secretly likes it to be ordered around…

A single look on his lips proves it all: the lower one has harsh bite marks and blots of blood, a result
of vigorous attempts to conceal his pleasure. That looks more painful than normal… Ray has always
wanted him to stop this little way of punishing, of hurting himself so badly, exhales heavily, and
kisses him so very lightly on the lips so as not to disturb his fresh wounds.
He hears this muffled, majestic moan again that resonates like church bells in his head, and then it is
gone, and Norman's lips are gone; he falls so easily on the bed, with such a light thump, Ray thinks he
is made of glass and snow. Ray stares so intently at him, so silently, he swears Norman's already red
cheekbones obtain a burgundy hue from bare, blind anticipation, from a dooming realization that just
like this Ray has him completely cornered.

In the form of a cross, there is a scar on Norman's chest, right over his heart; Ray saw it before but
never could have touched it. He lowers slightly down and explores it with his lips, rough, elevated,
cold skin contrasts with the warmth of Ray's mouth, with the softness of his lips, with the way he
kisses it with each beat of Norman's madly pounding heart.

And Ray feels disgusted with himself for now he cannot help but compare it to Norman's back, to
Norman's hell of a Father.

"I've never said this before, but I'm… I'm sorry. This must have hurt so much." Ray whispers, tickling
Norman's skin.

The chest under Ray's lips heaves and stills at the top; his whole body is tense, unbreathing,
unmoving, unresponsive. Ray kisses him again, moving towards his other breast, and only then
Norman comes alive, breaths shuddering, barely controlled, suppressing pain, and stays utterly,
disturbingly quiet.

"Sorry?... I thought you'd…" He says below a whisper, and Ray doesn't hear the last words.

"What?..."

"I said when I told you that you can do whatever you want I didn't mean I'd be listening to your
berating yourself all night." Norman bristles and pushes his torso off the bed, leaning on his elbows as
if this weird reaction didn't happen. He kisses Ray's hair, aggressive and blind, and for a second he
lingers, taking in his scent, and then kisses him again, his forehead, his temples, rushed, desperate,
always missing Ray's lips in the dark of his blindfold.

"What are you doi–" Ray's quiet chuckle is muffled in a kiss that somehow, finally reaches his mouth.

"Shutting you up. This wasn't your fault. Nothing. Ever." Norman's words quiet down, changing their
tone from sardonic and forward to something almost broken, something so fragile when Ray, getting
used to full control, touches his face and studies it with his lips. Careful. As if his skin is the most
vulnerable of porcelain. He lingers longer on Norman's eyes, on his blindfold, and kisses the outlines
of his eyelashes, one by one, fluttering even under the fabric.

Norman only sighs into his lips, "You are my angel."

Ray feels his Adam's apple bob in a gulp when Ray's lips trail the jawlines and lower, and lower, to
his neck, to his blue veins, to the highly irregular beat of his heart.

"There is… a gift. For us in the compartment of the table. Please, choose whichever you like. This
will bring m-me… greater pleasure."

It takes only a pointed finger to his chest, a push so light Ray barely presses on his skin, for Norman
to fall back immediately, looking so blessed and exhausted, Ray suspects they don't even need to go
any further.
Ray has never thought he has this much power over him… It makes his head spin just a little; it
betrays his imagination with pictures of what Norman will look like after Ray is done with him.

Ravished.
Eyes clouded, body tortured with sharp bites and gentle kisses, thoughts and speech incoherent bar his
name, his name, his name, louder, and louder, and louder until they cannot even hear the sounds of
their bodies joining as one–

"Ray." Norman raises his eyebrow, almost mocking him, knowing what is going on inside his mind.
"Enjoying the view?"

He will enjoy far more than just the view.

Ray doesn't answer and turns away, snickers behind his back that he wants to turn to moans rushing
him forward, and nearly bumps into a table.

In the compartment of it, he finds a knife, a whip, and a bottle of oils.

Ray freezes.

Why… would he need anything but the oils?

You can do whatever you want to me.

The steps Ray takes holler in Norman's ears; they holler in the room, throughout Norman's body, each
step reverberating in him in a flinch, in a slight tremble. When Ray just barely touches and cups his
knees, Norman's whole body squeezes in itself as if expecting a punch or a slap. Expecting a whip, a
cut, expecting pain.

It doesn't come.

Spread legs, touches that curve over thighs and ignore the aching part, that trail intricate paintings
over the skin of Norman's raised in the air hips, tense abdomen, bare chest, and open neck, it is all so
unfairly gentle, Norman's eyebrows rise in slight surprise for it is certainly not what he expected… It
takes all of him to part his lips and dare to almost beg to be rougher with him, to be forceful, to be
angry, to be vengeful, to be almost painful, so much so he could forget what has been done to him,
what he has done.

Ray almost ridicules him when he pretends not to hear him and lowers his body down; clothed chest
to bare one, the heat that comes from Ray's body calms Norman's nerves down. Their hearts speak to
each other, a faint beat, and for a minute they just lie there, chest to chest, heart to heart, without
words, without movement, and Norman's body relaxes under Ray's, and growing desperation soothes,
an aching need to be treated like he deserves–

Ray lowers his hips down and rubs, fully clothed, his crotch over Norman's hard erection.

"Ray." Norman says, intending to sound chastising, yet the effect is ruined by how laced his voice is
in a flash of pleasure, by eyes invisibly rolling behind the blindfold. He gulps the telling sigh down
when Ray moves closer to his face, presses on him, into the sheets, and lies on his chest fully, silent,
content to innocently ride on the disorderly waves of Norman's breathing, unstable, up and down,
expectant, and so heavy.
He takes Norman by the chin between two fingers and slowly turns his face away; Norman obeys, of
course, he does and parts his mouth as soon as Ray's fingers start trailing his roughened lips.

Norman doesn't breathe and shuts his eyes when Ray licks the contour of his ear and blows, light,
almost unsure; Norman's body twists in itself, torments in ripples of convulsions, his hips buckle,
knees press into Ray's back, and he regrets his whole existence for he cannot tear the silver fabric
bounding his wrists behind his back to pieces.

He tries to hide his ear, yet fingers on his chin and lips hold him in place, and this is all he wanted, to
be completely his, bound in arms and from freedom, do whatever you want to me, but they haven't
even started, and this already becomes too much–

Ray doesn't wait for his recovery, he leans even closer, and whispers, low, and the world seems to still
and burn when he says,

"I don't forgive you."

A shocked gasp, a moan, a cry, a protest is shut by Ray's mouth on his, and Norman tries to push him
away with his shoulders, with his legs that twine Ray's hips.

When Ray starts talking, it is Norman who tries to shut him up. He bites into Ray's cheek, he sucks on
Ray's lips, he leaves bruises on his face and neck, yet this isn't enough,

"I will not hurt you. I will not redeem you. I won't be the one to bring you atonement through pain. I
will torture you, however. I will kill you with this gentleness. Find it in your heart to live with this, for
I will love you forever."

"No. Stop. This is…"

simply too cruel. He wishes to retort, but Ray's hands crawl behind his face and take his blindfold off.

For a few seconds he is a man blind; he thinks he has lost his vision to the lethal rays of his black sun,
he panics for a second how he'll survive without the constant darkness of Ray's eyes, and then they
are here, watching him, ruthless, domineering, half-lidded, out of this world, so utterly in love that
Norman cannot face them.

…The fingers on his chin are still there.

"Face me. Look at me." And Norman does, and falls apart. "I love you. I love you." And Ray nearly
loses his mind when Norman's Adam's apple beneath his lips trembles in a quiet groan. "Moan my
name."

An order.

"Ray." Norman bites his lips, understanding that his infuriated, low call sounds so suspiciously like
what Ray wanted. "This is so not what I... Stop, please, have your way with me, I don't deserve th–"

"Then stop me. What do you need your hands for?" He laughs into Norman's neck, pecking at it,
going higher, to Norman's sensitive ear, and caresses his protruding elbows. Whispers. "I can't stand
how much I love you beneath me. When you breathe so freely as I do not choke you, when your skin
thaws out into fever as I simply touch you. How you hold your moans in your throat, and they are
born as little sighs that promise me so much more. Do you like this? When I watch you writhe just
from my lips?"
Norman hisses, angry, frustrated, and embarrassed, instead of giving answers; it is almost written on
his face how he just has to live through this.

Ray's hands are unpredictable, and they untie Norman's wrists, and Norman whimpers, a long,
pathetic sound, as Ray peppers his reddened wrists in wet kisses.

"You feel and sound so good... Do this again." And Norman doesn't, frozen, horrified, so red he is
almost purple. "I've always craved... to touch you like this."

Ray has never seen him in this state.

He has barely seen him so completely naked to begin with. What's more, Norman's barely allowed
him intimate, comforting touch except for the neck (of course), palms, and lips.
It has always been him leading, always him caressing, always him… clothed and "no touching".
Yet now… he is here.

So beautiful.
Bare. Squirming. Vulnerable.
Take me.
Each sigh of his messes with Ray's mind; each curve of his body, each scar, each centimeter of him—
if not already dirtied by Ray's mouth, it will be devoured, bruised ten-fold seconds later. Lips, ears,
neck, shoulders, collarbones, nipples, elbows, wrists, hips, thighs, and Norman sighs, may Goddess
blast him, not enough, more…

Ray wants them to be closer.

He wants to touch, to taste the snow, and drown in sickness, he wants, he wants, he wants them skin
to skin, he is delirious, he is shaking, he cannot help but gulp at the view of Norman, all red flowers,
clenched teeth, and stare, so hateful it is almost adoring.

"Undress me."

And his stare turns bashful, trembling, as if he has only just realized how bare he truly is under Ray,
how open, how painful their touch will be.

"What are you waiting for? You've done that so many times. You can't possibly tell me you're shy
right now." Ray chuckles when Norman raises slowly, instinctively hides his hands behind his back,
imagining that his wrists are still tied. "Let me help you then."

Ray only has to stroke his arms once, from his shoulders to his elbows, to his hidden wrists, for
Norman to oh so slowly give in and let Ray guide his shaking palms to Ray's buttons on his shirt.

"Have you always been so obedient?"

"Who would have thought your dirty mouth is capable of something other than screaming in bed?"

"And you talk too much." Ray laughs again, all enamoured and in control, and kisses Norman's palms
before allowing him to continue.

Ray's skin is rough and full of little scars that Norman contours with his fingers and outlines the night
sky on his chest, caressing the constellations between his old wounds. The wounds that have always
been his fault.

His fingertips avoid the scar in the middle of Ray's chest, trembling and moving away abruptly like
scalded when he accidentally touches the edges of it; his breath catches in his throat when Ray cocks
his head in curiosity and gently intertwines their fingers, stopping him, making him look in Ray's
eyes.

His all-understanding, all-accepting black eyes.

"I'm sorry." Norman still says, lightly kissing Ray's ring finger, and averts his eyes, defeated and so
immensely shy as if this is the first time he sees Ray naked, either.

No answer comes to him apart from Ray kissing him on the mouth, gentle, telling everything for him,
and Norman gasps and tenses when their chests touch, collarbones, nipples, abdomens, and Ray
pushes him back to lie down.

Norman doesn't resist this pain. This powerful revelation of skin to skin.

"Are you… are you sure about this?"

It is hard for Ray to ask this when they are the most intimate they have ever been with each other,
when all his mind and body crave is Norman right now. Yet, he remembers every single time Norman
woke up screaming, when he pushed Ray away and ran to the Forest to disappear for a whole day.
Norman never told him. But Ray knows.

"I am. I'll tell you if this becomes… if this reminds me… I'll tell you." Norman inhales sharply and
says in a strict monotone that won't stand for anything else. "Nothing changed. You can do
whatever…"

"No, Norman." Ray mimics his tone and pushes himself off Norman's body. "We are not doing this for
my pleasure."

"No! Don't, don't go, don't go." Norman shouts, voice pertaining nothing but crippling, primal fear; it
is astounding how Ray always thought all of Norman's physical power came from a wolf within, but
now it is gone, and Norman still grabs Ray's shoulders with inhuman strength to bring him back to
where he belongs.

He is not sure now if that was a good or bad idea to untie his wrists… Then again, Norman would
have probably torn the shawl not to let Ray go.

"I… I want this. For myself. I promise." Norman whispers now, easing his grip on Ray's shoulders
and caressing them carefully, yet still firmly holding him in place.

Ray watches him with an eyebrow raised, not totally believing, wary, frightened even. He knows not
of what; he doesn't even think of escaping Norman's gentle clutches for that would be in vain, so he
just stares at him, trying to make him talk further.

It doesn't work, and Norman rolls his eyes, ducks his head, and bites Ray in the neck hard. A jolt of
Norman's hips, bringing them closer, creating unfair friction between their bodies, at that same
moment of sharp teeth breaking his delicate skin makes Ray's mind implode, for him to moan,
unexpected, unashamed, and seethe with rage when Norman licks the bite, teasing, lets go of him to
meet his eyes again, mocking him with one eyebrow raised.

"Please, my fire."

Ray knows what Norman is doing with this sweet plea and teeth and hips, and he doesn't want to bend
to this dirty, simplistic tactic. Still, there's something more in his gaze, in his voice, something more
than masterful seduction.
A tiny gap into his desperation, weakness, vulnerabilities, and just as masterfully hidden pain.

Ray sighs, defeated, slowly kissing his way down Norman's body. "You'll tell me."

"I will." Norman says evenly, and his voice shatters in the beginning of a moan when Ray leaves a
faint kiss on the tip of his cock. "Thank you."

Norman lets go of thoughts, of urges to dominate, to resist, and abandons all of him to Ray.

They've danced together so many times, yet this time Ray nearly loses patience, inexperience and
reassurances rush him, and his oiled fingers, too many, too fast draw a sigh that's none too sweet and
all hissing, suppressed pain.

"Sorry. Sorry, sorry, damn, I knew this would happen, I'm sorry, I didn't…"

Norman pulls Ray close and kisses him, and his lips tremble in a chuckle: this is nothing. He would
endure so much more…

"I adore you even with your hands around my neck."

"Oh, that was a challenge for me, for sure."

Norman laughs and abruptly sighs, giving up his spirit, when Ray finally takes him for a spin. He
takes his eyes, he takes his voice, his mind, his every thought; he takes him all.

Slow, he takes Norman's outstretched hands, leans on them, intertwining their fingers, and moves his
hips and cannot murder a moan from deep inside of him when Norman tightly clenches around him
and sighs, and sighs, and sighs, such perfect sounds, as Ray gives in to their insanity and thrusts, and
moves, and completes Norman whole.

Tears stream down Norman's face like a melted avalanche as Ray, gently letting go of Norman's
hands, sinks his nails into the scarless, soft skin of Norman's hips and raises them higher, thrusting
deeper, deeping him in a dance, and Norman opens his mouth wide, closing his wet eyes with an
elbow, and drowns in his own tears, suffocates under the snow, and cries out,

"Faster, or I'll kill you."

And Ray stops, fully inside Norman's body, and Norman trembles, from hiccups, from the feeling of
being so completely filled by him, from sheer bliss, and Ray takes him by the elbow and opens his
eyes again. He kisses and licks the trails of his tears, his hand slowly stroking Norman's cock, and
Norman hisses, stirring his hips, indecent and all too eager for him to move, and yet Ray laughs,
throaty, haughty,

"Then kill me, beautiful."

And then he moves just like Norman threatened, just like he begged, just like he wanted, he moves,
on the edge of pain, on the edge of utter, incomprehensible in its existence gentleness, he moves like
he adores him, like he would die amongst these thrusts, amongst these sighs and slipping moans,
amongst their skins touching, slapping, burning, until they come, until they come, until they come

undone

and kill each other.

 It seems two moons have passed before Ray caresses Norman's hip, cradling his head, and brushes
white curls, tugs gently, and watches in silent awe their colour change in the shadow and under the
moonlight, asking, "How are you feeling?"

"Complicated. But it felt so good... to be yours." Norman says, breathing down Ray's collarbone, and
nuzzles closer, warmer, and his words wobble and fall under Ray's touch, under Ray's love.

"What, adelphopoiesis meant nothing to you?" Ray laughs and feels goosebumps travel all over
Norman's body, a reaction to the sound. "And I didn't claim you."

Norman sighs heavily, disapproving, yet doesn't argue back; he slithers on the sheets higher to take
Ray's head between his palms and look him in the eye,

"The Goddess took my gift from me and when it was all over I didn't hear your heart anymore. The
constant sound of it reminded me that you're alive, and it seemed to me that the world had died along
with you and she had cursed me to live where you were no longer." Norman says in a hushed,
stumbled whisper, a race before his whole body gives in, and he is losing it, and his pupils are
shaking, tiny black ships in the storm of his eyes, and his words are drowning with the boats, and Ray
thinks he will himself die if he sees his Norman in such pain again. "May I listen to your heartbeat?"

And so they lie there, and Norman kisses Ray's chest, and Ray holds his breath, hoping that it will
conceal his heart from beating so, so fast, yet little traitor doesn't care and beats so strong, so wild, it
screams instead of any words how much

"I love you." Norman says, out of breath, his hand clenching scars over his own heart, a look of pain
and bliss over his face. "Would you…"

He doesn't need to say anything further. Ray knows the question and silences his Norman senseless.

Would you ever be able to forgive me?

"I love you, too."

Chapter End Notes

All things do have to come to an end...

Thank you so much for staying with me all throughout this lo-o-ong journey! For waiting
patiently for many months for new chapters to come out, for supporting me and writing
wondrous feedback. (*coughs* don't forget to leave me a few words for this chapter too!)
Without you, my familly, my dear friends, this wouldn't have been possible.

I really want to thank Nastya, Helya, Alyona, and Polya in particular.

Nastya is my guiding light who has been listening to me ramble about The Crown for two long
years without rest. She was there for me when I suffered from a severe lack of feedback, she told
me I did good when I was drowning in self-hatred, she guided me through a burnout that lasted
for a year.
She painted good little things for me and is currently working with me on a translation of The
Crown in Russian.
I do not believe the story would have had an ending if not for her.

Not only did Helya wrote a piece of poetry, a piece of music, and a chapter inspired by DonRays
for me and for the Crown, she also did a scrapbooking page and a drew Norays together. Helya
was a voice of cold analysis to me as well. Many significant changes to the plot and to the
characters' development happened due to her, frankly, rough advice (which made me wail and
our whole friend group go ballistic with arguments /j).
(It's also thanks to her that Norman retrospectively became a bottom. Hooray to that.)

Alyona drew me a whole lot of Art (!), even though I didn't even ask her to. I also wrote most of
smutty scenes knowing that I have at least one allo person in my friend group who could ease my
nerves and tell me that this was, indeed, hot (:'D).

For a while, The Crown was Polya's hyperfixation, and her joy and outbursts became my drive to
write more. She also created magnificent aesthetics for each character (I uploaded them to my
pinterest board of The Crown, check it out, it's very neatly done).

And, as additional thanks for y'all, I'll share a link to a test I made exclusively for my friends
years ago (it's honestly kinda cringe), but I decided to give it as a present to you as well!

I returned from my brutal burnout, and I have many ideas for future works, including...

Wait, there's another chapter?...

 Black Sun: Their First
Chapter Notes

You might ask, "What the heck? Wasn't the last chapter the epilogue?" It was, indeed, is my
answer. But I'll not lie: I am obsessed with every single character, with The Crown, it is my child
I do not want to simply end. That's why my burnout was so devastating to me.

So, I came up with an idea. I took a peek inside my mom's (figuratively speaking), Stephenie
Meyer, book of Midnight Sun, and the notion of a work that switches perspectives entirely made
me go o-o-oh...

It was my writing point not to let you in Norman's mind too much. I did slip into his POV and
gave you his letters, but, ultimately, you were supposed to be met with the same shock and pain
and confusion Ray was experiencing with him. Ray doesn't know what he should do, what he
should feel around him in North chapters apart from sheer horror, so, we see Norman from Ray's
perspective most of the time.

But what goes on in Norman's head?

Black Sun (the way Norman sees Ray) is a small series of chapters (for now one of them is fully
written, the other one is sketched, and the third one is just an idea) entirely from Norman's point
of view. Two of the three chapters will show you new scenes that couldn't have fit into The
Crown for plot reasons. Norman here might let you see a new side of himself you even couldn't
have considered...

If you're interested, keep reading!

(The Crown is finished, however, and the status of the whole work will stay this way. Besides, I
am not sure I even will be able to write these additional chapters of Black Sun at all knowing
myself.)

For this chapter, I delved deeper into Norman and Ray's first time being intimate with each other.
The Throne wasn't it, you might have surmised. My friends asked me once if I would write their
first time, and back in the day I had no ideas for it and thought that it would be better left untold,
for everyone to imagine it themselves.

But now I am leaving you no option for your own versions, hahah, for I wrote it!
You should take into consideration that this chapter takes place between Breathless (Ray trying
to run away from the North and failing) and The Throne. It's vital to understand the context of
whatever is going on.

The best songs to listen as you read are Elias – Holy and Rockettothesky – Grizzly Man (yes,
again). You may find them on my Spotify and VK.

Where would we be without my favourite part? Trigger warnings! Mentions of physical abuse.
You probably have figured out which kind by now.

Anyway! Please, enjoy!

It is always so warm with him.

The howl of the northern winds, their unwanted guest that knocks on the windows and begs, threatens
Norman to take his fire away, the crackling dancing flames in the fireplace that used to lure him in,
and now he couldn't care less for them. His hands are circling Norman's neck, his legs press on
Norman's waist tightly, his heart beats over and over against Norman's ribs, and he is here, shivering,
cuddled in the softest, warmest plaid, and Norman embraces him by the shoulder, and wants them so
much closer, he wants to break their skins and bones for them to mend together, he wants their hearts
swapped so he would beat inside of him forever, he wants to share a throne, a bed, a grave, a body, a
love so strong, so out of control, he doesn't understand anymore how he could ever live without Him.

He'll do everything so Ray won't run away from him anymore.

Norman holds a book in his other hand but doesn't read it. His eyes trail over the lines fast, but words
escape him. His fingers turn the pages, a quiet rustle every few minutes, knowing that in their
childhood it always calmed Ray down. His mind is somewhere else: it is in the moment of panic when
he understood he could hear Ray's heart neither in the castle nor the streets, of relief when he spotted
him standing, numb, near the Gates, of shame when he begged not to leave him. Norman wonders
what must be going through his head right now… His broken boy who let himself be led away, who
clang to him as if he is the last person on earth, whose black eyes grew so dim at one point they faded
away.

Ray will recover. Enveloped in Norman's arms and love, he will move on. He has to.

Ray whispers something into the crook of Norman's neck, and Norman's consciousness refuses to
exist. He loves his voice so much… It grabs him by the chin and clenches his insides, it makes him
feel alive, it is so soft and husky, Ray would need only to utter a single "a", and it would crawl under
Norman's skin, awakening unbidden goosebumps. He wouldn't mind Ray touching his arms and legs
and comprehending for once what his sweet Prince is doing to him.

"Norman." That feels so good when he calls him by the name. Unfair. Pathetic. Do this again. "Read
to me? Please."

Read?
Norman doesn't even know what he is reading. He blinks and concentrates on the words. He rolls his
eyes. No way Ray is listening to this.

"I'll read something else to you, alright? Give me a second." Norman kisses Ray on the forehead and
strokes his shoulder with a thumb before slowly untangling himself from him.

"No." Norman inhales loudly when Ray nearly chokes him with his elbows, when his legs and body
press on him with inexplicable force, burying them further into the armchair. "Don't…" Ray winces
and shuts his eyes, a pained, prolonged sigh escaping his mouth. "Don't stop holding me."

As Norman slowly relaxes in his strong arms, so does Ray. He deflates again, trembling slightly, and
no warm plaid, no embrace doesn't help him from the cold that will stay within him until the end of
days.

No matter how much Ray hates him, Norman will always, always love him. That's why Ray will
never let him go. That's why Ray needs him now. That is why he will never ever run away.

At least that's what Norman thinks.

"Alright, my fire." Norman smiles into Ray's hair, nuzzles it, breathes his scent, red honey, books, and
heaven, and he would choose the rustle of his pages over any book in the Holy Library. "But it's
poorly written. Too sugary, and it's… about two men?"

Norman would never confess that it was his absolute favourite in his adolescence. The protagonist
who was always called "raven-haired" had a messy love affair with his enemy; Norman remembers
how much he blushed like an inexperienced boy when a scene, vaguely written, of them making love
to one another unfolded before his eyes.

"When did that ever bother you?" Ray mutters in a colourless tone yet Norman can imagine how his
eyes would roll adorably. "You are a man, and, if you haven't noticed, you are holding a man in your
arms right now."

Oh, yes. Norman felt that at the hot springs.

…He shakes his head to dispel the memories of their bare touch. Ray is sitting on his knees right now
—he would surely feel him, and that would be just too embarrassing for them both.
Ray needs comfort and kisses on his forehead, not whatever just flashed inside Norman's mind.

"Fair enough." Norman laughs quietly, playing with Ray's hair on the back of his neck. It keeps
getting longer with each passing day, mullet now, but his Prince refuses to cut it short, and Norman
wonders how is it even humanly possible for Ray to be even more beautiful. Norman sighs and very
reluctantly redirects his gaze from his unearthly beauty to the book. He starts. "Chemistry between
them was palpable. Raven-haired gasped when a strong body he detested so much pinned him to the
wall. Everything about him he hated. Everything about him he desired. His blue eyes that he wanted
to pull out and worship; his body made for murder and for sin; his lips that got busted by a raven-
haired's punch are now upon his own, and, oh god, this isn't happening, this isn't right, and he is,"
Norman snorts and lowers his voice to a whisper, mocking a word in cursive. "Kissing hi–"

Ray is kissing him.

Ah.
That's what cursive is for.

A book falls on the ground with a loud thud, the northern winds peek at them, intruders, the flames in
a fireplace crackle and giggle at how Norman's eyes are widening, and his head is pushed deep into
the armchair, and it's leaning on two legs now, in danger of falling, and Norman is certain it's him who
is about to collapse.

"Well?" Ray says nonchalantly, innocently, breaking the kiss, and the armchair regains its footing
harshly. Norman thinks he hears Ray laugh at his bemused expression, but then he whispers, and
Goddess, forgive him, this is not how he imagined he would die. "Go on."

Norman exhales raggedly, unconsciously searing Ray's face with his breaths, and touches his own lips
in a daze. Did he say to go on? To keep kissing? Oh, he'd do that. He'd do so much more than that.

"Norman." Ray stops Norman's leaning towards him with a grip on his chin, toying with him, but his
tone is serious and his eyes are melted bewilderment when he asks. "Why'd you stop reading?"

That's how he wants to play?

Norman feels devils overtake his being as they pull at one edge of his smile, screwing it into a
vicious, scoffing grin.
"Cold hands travel his body like he is a treasure, a property, or concentrated lava: they never stop at
one place, they are hungry, urgent, messy, they claim and are afraid of him, they grab his hips, his
waist, his wrists, his heart and twist it, twist him to so shamefully enjoy the rough touch of his
nemesis. The one he hates. The one he loves."

"You aren't even reading." Ray clicks his tongue, smirking, yet silently obeys Norman's narrative.
Trails hungry, urgent, messy touches over Norman's hips, his waist, his wrists. His heart. "Or is it so
poorly written that you know it by heart?"

"I can't resist a raven-haired protagonist." Norman raises and lowers his eyebrows playfully, and his
breathing gets shaky when he remembers what happens next. "No one knows who started it, but they
both moan into each other's mouths when–"

Yes.

Ray rolls his hips once, aggressive, calculated, just enough, a tantalizing arch of a spine, and it feels
like he shot Norman in the head, right between his rolling eyes. There goes Norman trying to comfort
him… Then again. It wasn't him who started it. Maybe Ray wants to forget everything like this…
Norman would help gladly.

He wants to mesh their lips together and make Ray moan inside his mouth, wants Ray's hips rolling
over his crotch, his ass, his lips until he is filled with poison from his arrows until there is no blood in
his veins but Ray's scent, but all he does is tilt his head and narrow his eyes in curiosity.

"You aren't even reading either."

"I read everything. That shouldn't be a surprise. Besides." Ray smirks, this little wicked smile alone
doing things even dirtier to Norman's mind than Ray's hips grinding against Norman's clothed cock. "I
can't resist a blue-eyed antagonist."

That does it.

Plaid falls to the ground from Ray's shoulders as Norman abruptly stands upright, holding him,
feeling his toned ass, and he expects to hear a delicious yelp of utter surprise as he kisses Ray with an
open mouth, but all he gets is a pleased hum from deep within Ray's chest.

It takes three steps, and Norman falls on the bed with this wicked bastard, crushing him, hands
immediately raising his clothes to his neck and exploring him, his scars, his rapidly raising chest, his
v-lines, tongue pressing on his lips.

"Nor–" Ray utters imprudently, letting Norman in, and Norman, stunned for a few solid seconds by
the warm bliss and taste of Ray inside his mouth, doesn't notice at first that hands around his neck are
now pushing him firmly, in a panic, not strong enough, to the chest.

When he does, the hands are clenched around his neck.

The kiss is broken at once. They both pant hectically, heavily, but Norman's breaths are born of lust,
and Ray's…

Of fear.

"Get… Get off me." Ray barely says, closing his eyes with the edges of his palms, and his voice is
shaking, close to hysterical, and his body is twisting in tremors like he is possessed. "Please."
The urgency in Ray's voice makes Norman roll away from him, and no nightmare has ever scared
Norman quite like the sight of Ray that lost his mind out of terror from Norman's touch alone.

What did he do? Did he hurt him again? Why did Ray kiss him and do other things if he is that
horrified of him?

It makes Norman sick to his stomach.

It is his fault. It's always his fault. Ray should have pressed harder, Ray should have killed him a long
time ago, he should have finished the job and drowned him, no, Ray is too good, too innocent, too
perfect to dirty his pristine hands with Norman's life, he hates it, he hates hi–

Norman carefully strokes Ray's forehead and prominent veins on his palms with fingertips and
whispers apologies, "I don't deserve you"s, "I didn't mean to hurt you"s, and doesn't pause even when
Ray visibly stops shaking.

Yet now the one who's trembling is not him as if Norman sucked his panic away with fingers and
swallowed it; Norman shuts his eyes, buried under the snow of pathetic, gnashing self-pity, and wants
so much to disappear.

He doesn't stop stroking Ray's forehead and palms.

He doesn't even realize that he is now caressing Ray's open face.

"When we were dueling…" Ray starts, staring at the ceiling, and Norman's whole world becomes his
dry words. "You topped me and cut my palms. Sometimes that's all I think about: the pain, your body
on mine, and your eyes. Many things you did give me nightmares. I'm sorry… You just… You were
above me again, pressing on me, just like then, and I couldn't breathe, I couldn't feel my hands, and I
was dying, Norman, I was dy–"

"Ray, Ray," Norman says, throwing intrusive thoughts about his worthlessness away. Ray is more
important now. He will always be more important. "I will not top you again, alright? I won't. I won't
hurt you." I love you. "You did nothing wrong. I understand."

Norman strokes Ray's face, and Ray closes his eyes with a heavy, tired sigh.

In truth, Norman doesn't even remember the scene that traumatized Ray so greatly; it happens to him,
sometimes even full days of his life slipping away from his memory. He doesn't know what possessed
him to commit this atrocity when all he remembers is his willingness to die by Ray's hand and then
horrific pain just above his heart from Ray's arrow.

He truly understands Ray; he is terrified of himself, too. Of the wolf that decides to disobey him and
overtake his consciousness.

He wants to look into his wolf's eyes and tear his heart out.
He so desperately hopes that it wasn't him… That it is not his memory trying to save him from the
burden of self-hatred. Of course, it's the beast living inside of him who is at fault!

Pathetic, Norman.
You are pathetic.

"Ray. Do you want a hug?" Norman whispers softly, not daring to touch Ray anywhere apart from his
face. "You probably wouldn't like it from me… I can call someone else."

A hand squeezes Norman's wrist. A weak gesture. A desperate one.

"No. I want you."

Norman huffs with his nose in embarrassed laughter.

He truly doesn't understand his Prince at all.

"Alright. Come to me."

Ray's arms wrap around Norman's back, and his leg is lazily thrown over Norman's hip, too
comfortable around him, and he is breathing Norman's scent too deeply, and he is too warm, and he is
too close, and Norman loves him
just a bit too much.

Willess, sick, drooping flowers are withering on the icy window, and Norman was once one of them,
yet now when Ray's breathing touches Norman's face and Norman opens his mouth to catch it, he
feels like he is inhaling fire. It burns his cheeks, his heart, his whole being, and he wants even more;
he wants to be alive with him.

He kisses Ray on the lips and burns to death.

…It feels so good.

Ray's heartbeat quickens, such a lascivious sound it makes Norman exhale deeply into Ray's barely
opened lips. They shiver.

Ray is unfair.
And. So. Good.

Norman carefully strokes Ray's hair to calm them both down. Slow. Gentle. Revering. From the top of
his head to the tips of his locks. Ray's heartbeat slows down, such a soothing sound it makes Norman
close his eyes.
Lips still on Ray's.

"I love you." Norman mouths and doesn't hear his response.

If there was any.

He dreams of silly books, hot lips, and black eyes that do not reflect his feelings back.
Yet Ray is always by his side. And that is enough.

The winds have calmed down by the time he awakes; he thinks groggily that he should put more
wood into the fireplace, yet somehow, even with the weakened fire, he is unbearably warm.

Ray is always by his side, he muses with a ridiculously lovestruck smile. And this one time, this is not
enough. He kisses Ray as if he is addicted to the movement, quickly, as if he might just disappear, as
if he is another dream Norman will wake up from, but when sluggish palms cup his cheeks and
burning lips answer him with a much more easy rhythm, he obeys and sighs, barely suppressing a
needy moan.
Because Ray answers.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty." Norman beams at him and languidly caresses a thigh thrown onto
him.

Ray snorts and rolls his eyes. Embarrassed. Defensive. Almost shy. Norman's eyes squint in
mischievous delight: he doesn't miss an ever-slight tremble of Ray's body when Norman touches his
leg.

Ray doesn't bend to his stare and states flatly. "Thank you for not raping me and impregnating me
with your kids."

Norman blinks.

"Wow." Is truly the only thing he can say. "Dark. Also difficult to accomplish in our situation."

And Ray laughs at that in full. Closed eyes, fleshed teeth, and a sound of such purity, of such
fruitiness, Norman wants to taste the vibrations of it inside his own throat, to savour them with a
harsh bite on Ray's vocal cords, and now he is getting slightly dizzy, and now his body is full of dots
as if Ray's laughter pricked him whole with delightfully sharp needles that cruelly do not draw blood.
They draw so much pleasure on his skin, inside his ribcage, Norman is almost mad that Ray managed
it with his laughter alone.

"Why aren’t you sleeping? My King Charming."

Norman concentrates a bit too hard on his voice. Tries to distinguish the meaning of his words even
through the ghost of his laugh, the beat of his heart in Norman's ears, the heat of his thigh against
Norman's palm. He has no mental power for teasing; he is brutally honest when he answers, "How
can I sleep when you’re lying here so seductive?"

"Am I now?"

"You are. You can’t imagine."

And at these words, something slowly starts changing in Ray's eyes.

It is fascinating. It is the most expressive, wild, unbridled show Norman has ever seen.

His stare that not a second ago was drowsy, tired, unconcerned sharpens with a glint from a fireplace.
It is calculative. Dangerous.
Deadly.
It is all at once a knife piercing Norman's throat in such a hateful way the point of it shows itself on
his nape.
It is enticing.

Norman cannot breathe.

His death must have been instant. That's why he isn't coughing blood right now.

Eyes of dark, bloodied steel scan him up and down: fingers on a thigh that grip a bit too tight, droopy
eyes that stare with such intensive longing, a body that doesn't leave even a breathing inch between
them, and lips not so thin right now that beckon closer, closer, closer,
and draw a conclusion that Norman is well aware of: he is vulnerable. Weak.
Pathetic.

Norman doesn't care and closes his eyes when Ray lays his palm on Norman's cheek and strokes,
soothing. Loving. Out of character.
Ray is the gentlest he has ever been.
It hurts like nothing ever did.

It is a blade that's peeling layers off his skin with each caress.
He loves it.
He doesn't immediately comprehend what is going on. That Ray is kissing him, that his thumb
stopped its touches to press hard on Norman's chin, that his hand is guiding Norman's from a thigh,
higher, higher until it cups Ray's ass, impeccably molded for his palm.

He thanks the Goddess for making them so perfect for each other.

As Ray's tongue enters Norman's mouth and Norman squeezes Ray's ass, they moan at the same time.
The sudden intensity of their touch, Ray's rare initiative, the dryness in Norman's throat that he longs
to heal by drinking right out of Ray's mouth, their muffled duet on inappropriately low notes, all of it
clouds Norman's sharp perceptiveness. He doesn't hear a false note coming from his sweet Prince; he
doesn't want to hear it.

It is a relief and a torture both when Ray's palm drags lower. Norman is acutely aware of its
movement even as Ray seems intent on distracting him by sucking Norman's soul from his mouth.
The fingertips barely touch his jawlines, they punctuate a tingling path from his neck to a spot
between his collarbones, press harder here, dig deeper, and the nails rip him open, they scratch his
chest above a thick layer of clothing, they unravel him, they want him to be bare, and they undress,
reveal him, a button away from his scar, and Norman moans. It is of no pleasure. It is of alarm.

His voice is hoarse, his lips tingle, he is tongue-tied, yet his grip on Ray's wrist is that of iron ice-cold
shackles as he hisses, threatening, "Don't touch me."

The image of himself in Ray's dark eyes scares even Norman for a numb second. He averts them
quickly, immediately releasing Ray's wrist, pulling his own palm close to his chest, hiding the
nakedness of it, and mutters much more quietly, an explanation, an apology without any wasted
words, "Don't touch me like this."

Deep down, with a part of himself he crashes with his shaking bare fists, he doesn't mean it. He wants
this. He wants Ray's hands to memorize him, to claw at him, to make him pretty shades of red and
purple, to choke, to violate, to roughly love, to worship gently, to constrict, to press his nape, his
whole body into the bed, to ram him from behind so uncaringly it borders on unloving, and Norman
would beg to stop and never truly mean it for it would feel so good, too good, almost unholy. Just
what he would deserve.

He wants to know how Ray's touch would feel against his skin in every single way.
He cannot have that.

The easy reason is that Norman would not allow his Prince to see the scar adorned on his chest. He is
aware of the implications it brings; he doesn't want to witness Ray's reaction to it when he touches it,
when he looks at it. Norman can imagine it so well the disgust in himself wells up in his stomach and
throat and twists him violently: how Ray would stop the kisses, how he'd tense up, how he'd
remember, and how he'd stare, in agony, reflection, and detestation he wouldn't even try to hide. And
then that pitiful facade of his would drop, and he would meet Norman's eyes and hopefully pluck
them out for Norman wouldn't ever want to see the blame the blame the blame the blame the blame.

And then Ray would

leave.

He would deserve that. The blame, the eyes, the hatred. Just not a lack of Ray.

Another reason lingers on his mind, the one he doesn't fully understand himself. He tried this once
with Cislo, tried to give him control, so much power over himself, tried to enjoy it, and for a while, it
was simply unpleasant. Like something itching him from within, an instinct that made his body alert,
his teeth clenched, as if he was in mortal danger, that screamed at him to kick and fight, and he knew
this didn't feel too nice at first. That wasn't that, however. It felt so deeply distressing in a way he had
forgotten, in a way he wished he could forget:
like Father taking complete control of him.

And then he snapped and howled, and cried, and threw his partner across the whole room with his
inhuman strength, and has never had that kind of contact with anyone ever since.
Norman knows that Cislo would have never hurt him; he knows the depth of his loyalty, of his love
Norman could never reciprocate in full (for Norman's taste he has always been too broad-shouldered,
a bit too rough, just a smidge dumb, and yet he has had black eyes). Apparently, that's not enough.

So, it doesn't matter all that much what Norman wants. He simply cannot have that.

He's gone. Ray's phantom words ring delicately in Norman's ears.

But you are here. Norman mused and warmed his hands bitten by the cold of Father's grave between
Ray's fur coat and skin.

He still is. Ray is here, limbs, lips, and heart, willing, kissing, and so strange, so good. And Norman
doesn't care if that's just lust, curiosity, or a calculated, manipulative attempt to draw near and pull his
heart out in their bliss, because for once in his whole life he is fulfilled, unpained, and so impossibly
alive.
So undeservingly happy.

He smiles apologetically, strokes Ray's cheek, sneakily buttoning himself up, and whispers frankly,
simply, "I would rather undress myself. And I want this to be all about you."

Ray looks at him intently, trying to read what stands behind these words, and covers Norman's palm
with his own. They almost fit, from the tips of fingernails to the edges of their palms, and
goosebumps travel Norman's arm when he feels Ray intertwining them, fiddling with them
mindlessly, and kissing him on a finger. Norman doesn't miss his words only because he stares at the
lips that with a fleeting gentle touch made his palm sweaty, breathing ragged, and heart too panicked,
all too fast.

"Fair," Ray whispers, and Norman is mesmerized by the way his tongue and lips move. "But I…"

He closes his eyes, not trusting himself to speak coherently, and pulls their joined hands close to his
heart, just like Norman did not a minute ago.

He doesn't have to speak.

The fabric of Ray's warm shirt rustles in Norman's ears, his full-body shiver and his weak hiss drown
the sound of crackling fire, and Norman feels the texture of his exposed bare skin, his prominent rib
bones, and watches in awe how Ray reacts. It's like he isn't made of blood, and bones, and sinful
beauty, it's like he is of pliant olive clay: he arches his back when Norman trails his spine, he bends a
little, showing more of his chest, when Norman strokes him, a straight experimental line, from his
closed neck to the navel with a single finger, and when Norman's breaths and lips ghost over a spot of
skin covering his heart, it accelerates right into Norman's mouth.

He knows that a proper, selfless lover would try teasing nipples, would kiss all over, explore, yet
Norman is neither proper nor is selfless.

He wants Ray's heart.

And sucks a stinging bruise, and bites his fragile skin, and licks the reddish blush that Norman's
tongue created, and cannot get enough of it, and hears and feels only the quick beatbeatbeatbeat inside
his throat, inside his skull, until it's shattered by the most melodic, the most angelic, the holiest moan
he has ever heard.

"Norman…"

The orchestra of his heart is empty, flat, incomplete without Ray's voice that sings two syllables, six
letters, in one breath. Norman detaches himself from Ray's skin with a wet sound, with a crazed mind,
with one desire to make his name a permanent legato on Ray's tongue.

He gasps as if Norman tore his skin and pulled his nerves with fingers; he is untangling him, he is
twirling, tugging, threading, he is playing him, he is making music, he leaves him loose, a mess, a
tarnished, unstrung, wanting Prince.

His Prince is sensitive all over, no matter where Norman unravels him. A long, wet lick on a
collarbone—a shiver, a gentle fondle of his buttocks and in between—a choked gasp, a single scrape
of teeth against his rising chest and pulsing heart—an addictive, desperate, disbelieving Norman
Norman Norman.

It is a narcissistic thought, yet Norman is conceitedly sure of it: Ray isn't weak for pleasure 'cause Ray
is weak for him. How he cannot control his breathing, how he cannot make his heart not react to
Norman, and how he chants the name, as if Norman is the only person who exists, as if it is the only
word he knows, as if he loves him.

Ray shivers in Norman's arms, feverishly hot, wrapped around his masterful fingers, shuts his eyes,
moans on the verge of concealed pain (because this is too much? because he needs it that much
more?), and Norman stops before Ray loses the ability to think, and leads him to a kiss. It is so
suddenly so gentle, and only their lips connect in a familiar, languid rhythm that soothes both of their
hearts in a calmer beat, in a clearer mind. Their foreheads bump lightly, affectionately, and no one's
delirious, irrational, and no one's trembling anymore.

Ray sighs heavily into Norman's mouth and whispers, half-admiration, half-bewilderment, "You read
me so well."

He does. And cannot quite believe how much raw, conscious want there is that stares at him and
urges, orders him to take.

He sees the darker irises trembling when his palms cup Ray's burning cheeks that still, miraculously,
warm Norman up from deep within. He thinks he reads every answer in this warmth, in this
excruciating want, in this darkness that promises him inner peace. Ray touches Norman back, Ray
reads him in the same fashion, and Norman has never known before the horror of that sacred act of
being read.
They do not need to speak. The words were not made for them; for them are pain, mistakes, and
blasphemous, cruel need. For them is ravenously ripping each other's skin to hear the sound of their
strangely still beating hearts.

For them is looking into each other's eyes and seeing God within.

And even if the words are useless, difficult, mundane, Norman still asks his living deity for this is
truly not about him, "How do you want me?"
A pause. Quickly averted eyes. Crackling, inquisitive fire. A smell of uncertainty, and shame. And
masterfully hidden fear.

"I'm not sure." He says it cooly as if to say that he doesn't care, that he would like whatever, but
Norman catches on to the subtle signs.

"Have you never…" Norman mumbles to himself and blanks out.

His mind ceases its thinking. His body is moving on its own, he is registering reality one thing at a
time: the elevated scars on Ray's palms that Norman feels on his own skin, the heavy, warm blush on
Ray's cheeks, the soft neckerchief that covers memories of nightmares, the love bite over Ray's heart
that looks like a severe bruise, a proof that Norman is a monster.

Norman has done that all to him.

He has twisted, violated him in every way and to the very core.
He cannot possibly defile him even further.

He looks into Ray's eyes to read what he is supposed to do and meets a coldness belonging to the
North, the ruthless in its truth, the very simple,

You cannot ruin me more than you already did.

And Norman shuts his eyes, and feels the acid creeping up his throat, and swallows it, and barely can
breathe as he says,

"I'm sorry. I don't think I…"

"Norman." The name in his voice untangles the knot, opens Norman's eyes, and makes him sane
again. There is no cold, no more in Ray's stare. Just impatience, a slight hint of irritation, and so much
attractive confidence it makes Norman coil to his every whim, syllable, and touch. "I. Want. You." He
spells it slowly, gets closer to Norman's ear, and their cheeks brush against each other, and he is
twirling Norman's particularly curly lock (that's reminiscent of a devil's little horn) on his finger as he
whispers, "Inside of me."

It does things unimaginable to Norman's body, to his mind: he almost stops existing altogether, he
grabs Ray's shoulders for support as his whole body is in weak tremors from the hot chill that started
from his ear, messed with his heart, and went right down between his legs. The thoughts that he is
unworthy, that he is too dirty to be Ray's first partner, that it's unfair how Norman didn't save himself
for him, that he cannot believe how Ray, untouched (how is this even possible), would choose him
above all else in this entire world, almost crumble and die as Ray gently kisses the spot behind
Norman's ear.

Almost.

Norman did this before. It was done to him. And yet as Ray is thoroughly, deliberately kissing every
inch of him, Norman can do nothing but lie down and stroke the back of Ray's hair and naked spine in
a deep wonder of what he is supposed to do with him.

"I'll…" Norman barely says, swallowing the stutter in his voice. "I'll be very gentle."

It was supposed to come out confident, reassuring, seductive, and yet the words all tumble out weak,
almost questioning, and so unsure, and so ridiculously scared, Norman is outright ashamed to be the
one to bed him.
The kisses that crept down Norman's jaw stop, and Ray slowly rises on his elbow to look into
Norman's eyes, one eyebrow raised high, such an intense unimpressed stare, the edges of Norman's
lips lift just a tiny bit in a fond smile.

"You better be."

"But it'll still hurt." It's only right to warn him, Norman is sure. For once, he might just change his
mind and… "Tell me at any point if I should stop."

There is no concern for pain in Ray's eyes. He has had enough of it, he is used to it, he doesn't care for
it. There is only one thing in his gaze, in his hands that take control of Norman's palms and lay them
over the edge of Ray's pants, and on his lips that hypnotize with the simplest, "Of course."

All fears evaporate before the feel of Ray's skin on Norman's fingertips and nails. He is slow and he
isn't looking down, he is trailing every hard muscle, he is groping him, and Ray bends his knees to
help undress him, he is shuddering so much the hair on his calves rises a bit to meet Norman's palms.

Norman would have touched, and touched, and touched him until they could no longer feel at all, but
when the pants are gone into the obscurity of Norman's room, he stops. For Ray is lying here, ready,
expectant, all completely, for the first time in Norman's life, bare, honest, fragile, so close, so hard, so
perfect (so much so that he cannot believe that, so much he wishes he could wake up from this), and
Norman can't do that. Can't do that all to him.

"You are shivering," Norman says, hearing his own voice as if it comes from someone else, someone
far away, buried deep under the snow, his smile so wooden it's a grimace. "I'll put some more wood
into the fireplace."

He doesn't see Ray's reaction to this absurdity of a line, that's how fast he frees himself from him and
jumps from the bed near a fireplace, running away.

The spinning world, accelerated breathing to the point of a hurting chest, the hands that are shaking so
hard he is barely holding the logs, none of it scares him quite as much as the fact that he no longer
understands his mind. The world has always been hard on him but simple nonetheless. Until Ray
came in, it was all white, with rules as straightforward as an arrow, the center of the earth being his
family, his pride, his Goddess. It is no longer so, it is all black, void of all colour but the colour of his
eyes, that which he barely knew, that which must have been eradicated, that which deformed, eclipsed
his whole another, simple life.
And now he cannot look away. He cannot have enough of it. He wants to mingle with it into one
being, feel this darkness flowing through his veins, he wants him all so much Norman doubts that at
this point there is any sanity left within his twisted heart.

He also knows that one careless blink of his, one misstep, and it's all over. Ray nearly ran away from
him, Ray looks at him sometimes as if he wants only for Norman to finish Ray's existence, and
Norman is a coward, egoist, yet he will not make another mistake again. Not one. Not ever.

He never thought that of all things in life… not Father but Ray would be the most terrifying.
The most sacred.
The most beautiful.

He turns to look at him and becomes one with fire.

In all of Norman's fantasies and dreams, he always touched and tasted, in a rush, thinking that in a
second Ray would perish, escape, pass away. He never looked. Never admired.
He cannot believe he never did.

Ray is so beautiful that Norman has turned to ashes.

His body arches on the bed, leaning on the elbows, and his legs hang down. An enormous shadow
covers half of Ray's inclined to the side face, and the bangs fall, opening both of his eyes. Ray is
squinting, one eye covered by the darkness of Norman's shadow, the other's a frightening reflection of
burning fire, and he is staring at Norman, unblinking, as if it's him who is naked, who is glowing, who
is painful to look at, but at the same time he needs to look.

The shadows shift as he stands up.

Ray is still for a few seconds, deliberate, breathtaking. Tense chest and abdomen rise slowly up and
down, defining the outlines of his muscles further, his cock is pointed upwards, thick, veined, inviting,
so hard and chiseled Norman gulps, grabbing the stone edge of the fireplace. Mouth dry, throat
locking, he looks lower and watches as Ray walks: almost menacing, threatening, so slow Norman
has memorized every move the muscles make on his calves and thighs.

It is a mistake to look into his eyes again. At the moment their eyes interlock, Norman finally
understands that he is cornered, that Ray is approaching him, that with each of his step, his blown
wide pupils draw so much closer until they swallow the world.

Until they swallow Norman.

In this total blackness, he feels familiar fingertips barely touch his abdomen, gently stroke his chest,
and then a scorching palm lies on the side of his neck. Something presses on Norman's jaw, closing it,
and teeth click all too loudly in his head, making him at last embarrassingly aware that naked Ray is
standing right in front of him, shutting his mouth that opened in sheer awe, and his hands are dragging
lower until they seize Norman by the shirtfront with impressive strength and pull him closer.

Ray is warmer than fire behind Norman's back, and he is reaching for a kiss…

That never comes. Ray is somehow farther than he was a second ago, and Norman comes closer to try
again. This time, he sees it: Ray takes a measured step back, hands still clenching Norman's clothes.

"Don't play with me." Norman whispers, a step closer.

"Same to you." Ray answers, a step back.

"I'd never do that to you." Norman says, feeling Ray's cock pressing on Norman's clothed one, and
watching Ray's lips hide from view, pressed into a thin line. "It's really hard for me in my head right
now. I don't… You're not… I'm… I'm sorry."

Of course, it works, and Ray's lips relax only to be a little winning trophy for Norman's feverish
hunger. They collide, already sensitive, plump, and almost red enough from their sessions earlier, and
for a second Norman is certain Ray's fists tighten and lips form into a crooked smirk because he loves
it, but then the world is spinning once again, and he is roughly thrown onto the bed (thank Goddess he
put in a mattress per Ray's request or otherwise it really would have hurt).

A hot body falls on him, curves into him, rubbing harshly, urgently, and as Norman sighs into Ray's
mouth, pulling his hair, matching the sudden roughness, he thinks he has never been so wanted and so
painfully aroused in his entire life.
"I'm not letting you go." Ray warns in a low voice, hardly breathing, and at this moment Norman
doesn't think that these are all empty words: Ray's strength, his forcefulness, his control don't matter,
that's how meager they are in comparison to Norman's.

At this moment, disproportionate, irrational happiness presses down on him, with his whole body, on
his stomach, on his crotch, on his ribs, almost breaks him, knocks his breath away, and, smiling
almost painfully, from ear to ear, with trembling lips, he whispers just as low,

"You aren't?"

No matter what?

Lust falls from Ray's gaze at that. For a second he looks lost, deeply uncertain, almost disturbed, but
then he kisses Norman on the brow, far too gently, far too good for him, and Norman cannot read him
anymore. Despite the shift in the atmosphere, Ray still knows what he wants and with a fierce
determination, he undresses Norman from his pants.

And Norman allows him.

As long as he isn't letting go.
It will be fine.

The gasp that comes from Ray's lips is small, the flaming red on his cheeks is flattering, and the
emptiness his body leaves when he slides from atop Norman to lie side by side again is unexpectedly
oppressive. He turns with his whole body towards Ray immediately and doesn't meet his gaze: his
Prince is staring, eyes half-lidded, at somewhere between their bodies, comparing, admiring,
wanting?

"You… you look…" Ray closes his eyes and inhales deeply, breaths stuttered. Nervous. Adorable. To
think he was so dominant not a minute ago… "You look good."

Norman smiles at that, smug, and brings his face closer to Ray's so that he would have no choice but
to look at him, and whispers in his lips, "I also feel good."

Their throbbing cocks rub against each other, held together by Norman's strong grip, and Ray chokes
on his own moan. Norman doesn't move, just barely, excruciatingly caressing a vein, looking at him,
and his palm is covered by another that guides him to the bases, to a clumsy, stiff, slow rhythm that
doesn't meet the tips for it would have been over all too soon, and presses, shaking, asking to be a
little harsher. A relieved, drawn sob escapes Ray's mouth, his eyes askew are glued to the sight of
Norman's hand stroking them, drawling, long, squeezing just right; the same thought hits them at the
same time that they will not last even like that much longer.

"Your turn." Norman says and cannot believe how calm, collected he just sounded for he is howling
deep inside.

Ray looks at him directly now, unintelligibly, out of breath, and for a solid few seconds, the pressure
leaves their cocks as Norman turns away with his torso to pick a pot of healing ointment on his
bedside table. Not the one Mother makes, of course… This one is greasy and lasting on the skin
enough to be just what they need.

Now Ray's hand is doing the job, and Norman understands why he was staring so intently: the show
of his Prince's palm (more unsure, more desperate, softer, despite the tangible scar, than Norman's)
touching, pleasing them both, rubbing them against each other, the closest they have ever been, is
hypnotizing, gorgeous, and so powerful Norman wants even more.
He coats his fingers in a viscous salve and draws gentle, soothing circles around Ray's anus. The palm
on their cocks pauses, alert, the muscles on his legs and ass tense, but then Ray heaves a sigh and
raises his leg higher, laying it on Norman's thigh, giving more space, freedom, and trust. Grateful,
Norman quickly kisses him on the cheek and inserts one finger. He takes it well and nods, yet his
moans quieten down and his hand stops almost completely for him to concentrate on this new feeling.
Two fingers are a little harder, tighter to put in, yet manageable still, and Norman wishes to reward
him: he bends the fingers inside of Ray a little and presses on the spot he knows will make it all
work.

He doesn't expect a scream, a hold on their cocks tightening to the edge of pain, a head thrown back,
opening the neck, and Norman, terrified, does a careful but prompt motion of pulling out.

"Did it hurt…"

"Don't stop!..."

The neckerchief disappears from view as Ray brings his head back in a rapid, snapping move, looking
into Norman's eyes with a deadly desire to either kill him or shove his fingers down Ray's ass again.
Norman laughs quietly and kisses Ray between the brows, feeling them relax and smooth beneath his
lips, all the while applying more ointment on the fingers.

Three is a harder task, and Norman is patiently waiting for him to adjust, massaging him inside,
cautiously circling, never pressing on the spot, and only moves when Ray begins to breathe more
evenly and strokes their cocks again, and Norman is matching his ever slow rhythm with light
thrusts.

An exhausted, low moan fills Norman's ears as he pulls out and gently guides Ray by the wrist from
their cocks. He could have asked for help, but he imagines how Ray would just as slowly caress his
cock and coat it with salve from the bottom to the tip and nearly finishes right there. So, he does this
alone, quick, efficient, eyes shut, not even thinking of him lying here, lying already wasted, ready to
accept to the very end.

Not thinking.
...Goddess, please, forgive him.

The first thing he notes is how their pose is not all that comfortable. There will not be a lot of room
for movement, for them lying side by side: Ray's leg is caging Norman's thighs, and Ray now clings
to him, his head buried into the crook of Norman's neck, his arms embracing Norman firmly by the
shoulders. A statement: do whatever, I am ready, I trust you, and I am afraid. Norman kisses him
awkwardly on the hair, and Ray nods in go ahead.

This does not go well. Norman strokes his thigh and enters him, just a tip of a tip, and Ray's muscles
tighten, and he inhales sharply, scratching with such force Norman feels the nails ripping his flesh
even through thick clothes. Norman pulls out instantly.

"Ray. Ray." Norman mumbles, soothing, having suspected this could go like this, and caresses Ray's
hair, cradling him. "We don't have to do this."

"I want to." Ray replies stubbornly, yet all of him is still a bundle of suppressed nerves and pain. "I'll
do better."

"You are good enough for me."

Norman curses himself for saying this for these are not the words, this isn't what he thinks, this is an
understatement. For everything that Ray is, everything that Ray does is absolute, pristine, and
flawless, and not just good enough. Yet suddenly, they are sufficient for something to release Ray
inside his body and mind: he relaxes, softens in Norman's arms, exhales heavily as if dropping a bulky
burden from his shoulders. As if these are the words he has wanted to hear all his life.

Trembling fingers carefully stroke Norman's shoulders and spine, particularly the places where Ray’s
nails bit harshly. He shakes his head and sighs, "Sorry."

"No. Don't be sorry. You can scratch and bite me if it hurts." Norman reassures him and doesn't
mention how he would let his Prince absolutely break and ruin him. That would be fair. That would
be even pleasing. That would be cathartic. That would be…

A sharp flick to his forehead distracts him from this line of thought.

"Ow." Norman says, monotone, and bursts out laughing. "What did I do? What are you, eleven?"

"I will not be doing that," Ray says, ignoring him. "And you will be doing me."

Norman smiles into his hair and whispers, "As you wish. Your Highness."

The second time he isn't met with such intense resistance. Yet it's still there, and Ray feels so tight
around him that it's a struggle to push through even with the salve, that for a second Norman feels like
he is watching them from overhead, like this cannot be true. This isn't happening to him, this sort of
pleasure isn't crushing him, and this dream of a person isn't giving him all of what little he has left.

He stops halfway in, feeling the butterfly's touch of Ray's lashes against his shoulder. They flutter
barely with the force of Ray's shut eyes. This feeling grounds Norman, makes it all real, and all at
once it is too much, and hot tears prickle the corners of his eyes, and this is unbecoming, pathetic,
humiliating, and he cannot stop it, and

"I love you. I love you. I love you so much I can't stand it, Ray, I love you, I love…"

"I love you, too."

Simple, tired, strained, heart-wrenching, inconceivable, tender words flow into Norman's ears as Ray
kisses him on the lips, and if Norman thought he was crying before, now he is inconsolable. He
moves slowly, languidly, blindly, barely, never more than a half of himself, and Ray moans, biting his
own lip, with each imperceptible thrust, be it from pain or rapid shots of pleasure. Ray isn't meeting
him only until Norman hears his heart, already way too fast, beating out of Ray's chest so hard he
stops breathing; Ray grabs Norman by the shoulders and moves, tilting his own body back, angling
himself better, taking Norman deeper, faster, louder!...

"Yes!... What are you doing?!"

If Ray killed Norman right now, it wouldn't even be a sin. For Norman is holding Ray's thighs,
stopping him, pulling out gently, and Ray's muscles clench around him instinctively, and this isn't
helping, and he is wincing, gasping, mortified, enraged, and stays like this, wide open mouth, when
Norman ducks low, to the level of his painfully throbbing, profusely leaking with pre-cum cock.

"I wanted you inside of me as well."

And this is heaven. A multitude of veins that Norman feels on his tongue, a slightly sweet taste and
thickness deep inside his throat, comforting, choking pressure, wet cheeks and lashes, fingers that
violently pull on his hair, and a muffled, panicked scream,

"Norman, Norman, stop! I'm… I'm dying!..."

Norman meets his eyes in a pure challenge and slowly releases him to say,

"Then die with me."

Norman doesn't simply take him in his mouth then, no, he moves like Ray's life depends on it. The
only thing he feels is the smell, the taste, the breaking voice, the begging words, and such impossible
belonging, such unity with Him, Norman breaks down, loses his consciousness, his sanity, the
meaning of himself, ascends and drops to his death to ascend again with Him.

Death tastes like Ray, it smells like him, it loves him just as much, and when the cruel Mother life
returns him by the collar he almost regrets it.
Until he meets with a sight of Ray's deflating cock and a strong aftertaste of Ray's semen in his
mouth.
He thinks he is insane and idiotic for regretting ever returning. How could he ever bear to part with
Ray?
Norman licks his softened full length lazily, and Ray answers him with a displeased, tortured moan, a
tug to Norman's locks that was supposed to be forceful, controlling but came out weak and exhausted.
The kisses then are apologetic, thorough, drugged, and moving up Ray's body: pelvis, abdomen,
navel, ribs, nipples, collarbone.

Norman settles here, snuggles into him, inhales the mixed scent of their sweat, and books, and herbs,
of Ray and Norman, sluggishly closes his eyes, and hears it.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Sonorous. Calm.

One.

They are one.

Ray said he loves him, but Norman knows that is a lie. A very sweet, a very bitter lie. That is okay.
Right now, right here, like this. This is enough. And they belong to one another.

"Norman."

Norman hums, pleased to hear his voice, the ramble of it going through his chest.

"Come to me."

Norman does. Of course.

The kisses they share are lax, wet, and full. Their lips connect and rarely part, and when they do Ray
licks the sensitive borders of Norman's lips, and Norman smiles adoringly at that, wondering if Ray
saw through him and now's consoling him like this.

Norman strokes his cheek, pressing on it a little, halting him, and asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Sore. Empty. Unfairly good." Ray answers, closing his eyes in soft pleasure. Honest. Weird.

Norman cocks a brow, "Unfairly?"

Ray hums in agreement, "This wasn't supposed to feel this good."

Norman holds back a sarcastic I wager I'm just this good and asks warily, "Why would people ever
make love if that didn't feel good?"

Ray opens one eye and says so hesitantly it sounds like a question, "For reproduction?..."

Norman can only snort at that. "I'm gonna love our son so much. He will be a beauty. He'll have your
hair," Norman muses, stroking Ray's bangs, "and my eyes." He takes Ray's palm and rests it on his
own eye. "You will teach him how to read at two years of age, Her Majesty Emma will be his sweet
auntie, the entirety of North will wait on his hand and foot, at his adolescence he will despise me, and
I will become disappointed in him when he will grow fond of a girl."

Ray laughs at that, still tired, but heavily, blessedly amused. "You can't stand kids."

"And they can't stand me." Norman kisses him, and it is strange how their lips move as they are both
smiling. Strange. Still so. Unfairly.

Good.

"I love you." Norman cannot suppress it, cannot contain it within himself, and he almost doesn't regret
saying this even when Ray's face loses its giddiness, becomes carefully neutral, almost distant.

It's silent as Norman is stroking Ray's growing locks.

His eyes are closed, he is almost dozing off when Ray kisses him on the lips and whispers so quietly
Norman wouldn't have perceived it if not for his enhanced hearing.

"I love you, too."

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