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I break my bone to build their falling walls,
And bleed in silence where the shadows grow.
They strike the hand that lifts them when they fall,
And curse the very blood that shields them so.
I ruin my own flesh beneath the stone,
To buy a peace their anger tears apart.
I bear the winter of this land alone,
And carve their kingdom from my breaking heart.
“Oh, Cael,” Elara whispers. This poem, she realizes, is an exact reflection of what he endures, a testament to the solitary pain he carries. She understands now how he commits to his grueling duties alone, regardless of the physical toll. He absorbs the insults of his own people and suppresses the agony they inflict. Cael acts as though his heart is forged from the unfeeling steel of his blade, but behind his guarded eyes and the soft tremble of his lips, she sees the reality. He is entirely misunderstood.
The revelation allows the tight panic in her body to ease, prompting her to sit on the edge of the mattress. Her heart aches with an unexpected heaviness that leaves her throat tight. Slowly, her fingers turn to another page, searching for more of his hidden thoughts.
A sentence passed upon a binding breath,
This life is shaped to bear a world of stones.
No passing hour defies the pull of death,
Or eases the despair within my bones.
I weep in secret when the sharp words strike,
This quiet is no shield against the knife,
It paints me as a monster, dark and like
The very sins that haunt my hollow life.
The queen’s cold slashes linger on my skin,
A bitter weight upon a breaking frame,
I crave the border paths where winds begin,
To lose my duty and my royal name.
Elara sniffles, leaning back against the pillows as the uncomfortable fabric of her cream-accented white gown clings to her skin, shifting above her knees. Her eyes remain on the poem of despair, staggered by the disclosure of his stepmother physically harming him. She never expected Queen Maereth to be this monstrous. Cael carries physical scars he hides from the world, harboring a desolation that drains his will to live. He truly believes the world exists only to punish him.
She closes the booklet with a loud, echoing flap, her body shaking at the profound impact of their shared relatability.
His long black coats and outfits that do not expose a trace of his skin, his scarred hands hidden beneath thick black gloves, the high folded collars covering his neck. It all makes sense now. Every garment is an intentional armor to keep the palace from seeing how much he bleeds in secret.
Reopening the notebook, Elara traces her thumbs over the poem, feeling the texture of the dried black ink beneath her fingertips, as if the gentle caress could somehow comfort him and ease his deep sorrow.
“Mother, what shall I do?” Elara whispers to the silent air, letting her soft words flow into the empty space of the bedchamber. “Should I trust this prince? Perhaps learn to understand him more?”
She receives no answer from the shadows, and she squeezes her eyes shut against the rising weight of her choices, the warmth of his touch on her knuckles still fighting the harsh whispers of the court outside.
Standing, she exits her bedchamber.
XXIII
